synthetic residual warmth

We took up for each other where our families left off. Left a mess
of crumbs and beer cans. A pile of laundry. When you left town,
I kept your T-shirt in bed, synthetic residual warmth.

Used to be I'd meet you at the train tracks. My shirt too close
to my skin, my hair cramped with sexy. Used to be at night,
and red lights would come rolling across. The water below
was cut with a hacksaw.

First night in a new city, and you said it wasn't sex. She had her back
to you. When I said I don't care, I was in a parking lot
with my fist on my forehead. With bare feet and a bus ticket.
No ledge. No lock me in the trunk; you'd sooner lock me in the engine.

So much later you found a phone booth. Called me up
on my new red phone. I felt like the Commissioner, or like Batman
on the wrong end of things. I heard the thrum-thrum of your voice,
your lighter click, the little signs. I took off my target T-shirt, I took off
my shiny pants. I stripped down quietly and unplugged my lights.
[Danielle Pafunda, 'Small Town Rocker', in The Best American Poetry 2006]