This girl is Daytona Beach, 1957.
She’s Audrey Horne with a cigarette
and he’s begging the Marlborough Man for lessons
because by God she is trapped in his head like MKUltra;
they haven’t talked in six or so months, maybe more,
but every photo that pops up of her
is like a Christmas card from a well off grandfather;
she is Marilyn
she is tequila neat three times to many
she is the starlit songstress on a catwalk before him
and he will break and burn down anyone, anything
if he can’t have her.
He is a plastic handle of muddy rum
spilled over the edge of formican imitation hardwood
seeping into a cherished oriental rug.
He is Revere’s shoreline, 1978.
He’s Sara Goldfarb clinging to the scale;
—the way wind whistles through abandoned storefronts
his slurs stumble between broken teeth.
He hasn’t showered in six days, maybe more,
but every night when he can’t sleep he searches for her online,
he leaves nails behind her tires and waits
for a spin out to make it’s way down the grape vine.
She won’t have him now but one day she will
is what he tells himself while he tells others
she won’t stop talking about him;
she’s just crazy, you know.