a 16th street memory by Mat Gould

I walked out
of
a
frigid gas station bathroom
on
the other side of the freeway off ramp
after
your
girlfriend slid against the wall
and
hit the floor
I didn't see you for awhile
and
I still haven't
the last I knew
you
were a thespian of sorts
and
working out of the renovated church office
where
we
used to meet up
insignificant angels
taming the stone gargoyles
of
inner city roof-tops
knowing
our
sadness
was
animated
we lived it out anyway
now
I spend my days
looking
for
used books I don't really need
and
finding poem
in
the rust of bones
and
the blood of soles
and
get paid for social work that no one else wants to handle
only
because
I've been there with these fuck-ups
and
I remember
the taste of kissing my arm
after
loosening the tie-off
and
I remember how hard it is to care
about
much else
but
thats not true
there isn't anything we can do about it
and
this is why
I
think about you
every
so
often-