Buffalo, NY



Renaissance window gulch
Warbling brass Elmwood jazz
And we fucked in that paper house,
with the door slightly open.
Your bloodied, gnawed fingertips on the head
Of my heart, trembling hotel sheets,
where you whispered relax before you crawled
inside my boxer-briefs.

Snowflake sidewalks along the Erie Port,
“Down by the Water,”
Jukebox full of James Brown,
French kissing in Allentown,
Greasy spoon, moulting brick,
Rust belt causeway.

I liked the blonde fuzz of her arms,
On my ribs as she reached down for me,
Or her chestnut strands that fell over
soft pink nipples.
And she asked me to fuck,
In the bunked bed hostel,
And she asked me to make love,
In a city who belonged to someone else.

But Buffalo, New York
Belongs to nobody,
Outside the perfumed sheets of my memory,
And in the past,
In the East,
Where I left them all.

— tphillers


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