in the last frame of the photostrip
its just photobooth curtains,
a mess of hair and flailing hands.
i pass out on the L train and end up in manhattan,
rubbing my eye-bags. legs gave out so someone carries
me to a doctor or a taxidermist; above the receptionist
a stuffed wolf's head, teeth sharp and straight.
the third frame is scratched out like a lotto ticket,
no hints left.
by the time i’m back to brooklyn,
the sun has turned it into a brick oven.
at the table with a wallet full of numbers
i try to remember things. the barista wears a handgun.
Second , two joke-kissed. a third lit a match,
held just inside the frame.
at the bodega they burned barrel fires,
smoke of steel and plastic choking up the room.
I thumbed a matchbook--directions to a house--
must have gone, but next thing i remember is
subways cornering, the tilt and creak,
speeding curve and sudden stop.
in the first frame of the photostrip we smiled huge,
lip-cracking smiles, our eyes shone like candy wrappers.