For Baron B.

On the blacktop, along the track, against

      the gym’s bricks, somewhere, you said,

I teased you in middle school, some-

      where, relentlessly, you said. Are you gay

yet? You were seated in a circle I’d run

      in, who used strange language: brown,

white, blow, bars, bud, 8-ball, triple-Cs. A

      sophomore. I’m not fucking gay, Zach.

Dre gave you an out, keeping you in

      the closet, Yeah, we did it. Okay. Then

you admitted it. We were in your parents’

      kitchen with so much plastic stacked

in that fetid sink, and apple cores, cheese,

      Camel filters floating in the Tupperware.

Don’t smoke inside, you said, I really hate it

      when she smokes inside. Your father, in his

dent in the yellow, cushioned couch,

      collected unemployment, shook his head,

Faggots through browning teeth. He had

      a habit with watches, collected second

hands, spun gears into and out of place.

      I blew my smoke out the window

in your bare bedroom. You taught me

      to cut my own hair with a Bic razor

by pressing my thumb against the blade

      at the nape of your neck. The less pressure,

the more texture you get. Thanks for taking

      pictures of me on the playground,

costume earrings, knock-off Swarovski;

      a faded turtleneck cut across the chest;

my adolescent armpit hair exposed as I

      hung off the monkey bars; you smeared

the lipstick across my face; I kept my eye-

      liner straight; our hair was magnificent,

Baron, thick, dry, unruly curls. Thank you

      for offering me the needle, even though

I turned you down. You called me the only

      man who could take heroin or leave it.

Mainly, you took it, in the backseat of

      my Blazer, making your fix, we kissed

for the first and only time at the red light.

      I  just want you to feel good. I didn’t. Your

name is written in thin, circular stains

      at the base of every spoon I eat from.

You come back to me in stages; I don’t

      know who you are. Even the playground

only looks like you at night when nearby

      sirens bore and skinny dogs get kicked

in the ribs. We could make it so you don’t

      feel like the inside of a cheek ground into

sidewalks, Baron. There are so many clean

      walls where I live now. I’ve got computers.

You could use them.