Those Who Make Love Halfway (Dig Their Graves Prettily)

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By Andrew Romanelli

I’m troubled of girls
who ask me to sit
at the edge
of their bed,
just for a moment

before the sun
floods in, before
it all becomes color,
we are still,
black and white.

She’s laying there,
bare legs, Breton shirt,
navy panties.

Her mouth naked
a cigarette—short
I-read-Kerouac hair.

I’m trying to leave.

I know what’s coming
but I have things to go,
like checking my tires
and eating coffee alone
or drinking poetry
in the waiting room
as they rotate my soul.

if I’m not leaving
one place, I’m staying
for good, then they’ll
say things that I
will not return.

I try to warn them.

I’m avant-garde
third stream jazz,
Monday morning
in the rain.

They never listen.