We’re both wanted men
but none of us knows it just yet.
I’ve looked at you differently
ever since you told me:
I’d rather it all burn to the ground
than begin to clean up this mess I’ve made.
Maybe you didn’t mean it, but I did.
If it all would just disappear,
I could start over too.
What would you do if I chose to save
cartons of milk just because
their expiration dates
were like birthdays, stockpiled
newspapers and dented cans like Doric ruins
in my living room, rewrote
the true gospel so I could save
nor a cent for retirement?
I burned it all down just to see
how your eyes bobbed outside
the fishbowls of your lenses; it burned
so I could pull out your circuitry
by the handful until your towering frame
was almost weightless.
The past is in wet piles, charred rubble.
You would have done the same for me.