Canvas Shoes and Concrete Blues

We sat on the bridge with a bottle between us,
One brown bag and two black eyes,
The smell of disinfectant and hospitals,
Four feet dangling into a rush of metal and man to man, we talked at length, about the length
of the day, and how things got this way.

My nose bled like an open faucet,
and the truth flowed forth like water
in my bath at home, with the sock on the taps
to keep the muck out of the water, and a toaster
balancing, plugged in and ready to fall.
He told me this was morbid.

Throwing dirt onto the coffin, and throwing up
hunched over a toilet like it was an ancient text,
pages and pages of brand new ways to forget.
Those feet dangled over oblivion, and one
shoe dropped, glancing off a windscreen like
a reflected beam of light.

In my dreams I see that shoe in freefall,
falling like a crashing plane,
like a crashing wave, like a crashing car.
Dance of metal and flesh, scent of blood so fresh.
I looked down at my hands, my vision doubled.
He told me this was a side effect.

He told me a lot of things that day,
He told me at lot of things in a lot of ways, but
that glint in that eye, that doubled and tripled
as the rum drenched my brain, told me the most.
He told me this was goodbye, said the same.
Told him that was morbid, was blind to his pain.