It induces such an appetite 	for ribs

to know I was the first person to call you	 honestly.

The names you’ve tried on collecting	 in my cheeks

like bar mix. The woody aftertaste 	carried over

to two burnt matches	 suspended 	in the air conditioning

with our feet up on the vinyl seats 	of the last

train south.		Caught it by a whisker

running 	through the stench of cement		away from another

obligated goodbye.		Elope with me.

It’s another way of saying your name is a birthday cake

you never ordered.	You have no other option

but to eat your way out. 	While the walls are on fire.

In that trendy bar.	 		And everyone is singing.

Singing by name. 		And patting you		on the eggshell

with a countertop.  	Whites frothing forth over clear liquor.

Now,	all stations.	 	My palate is filling with paper serviettes

and the violet blooms of cracked pens. 	There is too much to say

the words are smudging across the fleshy triangle 	on the back of my hand.

Navy motion draining into my stomach 	straight off the sloping window.

Staring back across the grey opening 	of the carriage floor

the woolly unspoken fills my ears with nausea	and pops 	in a minty bubble.

To be fair, 	we weren’t intended	to be commuted this way.