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what must have the week nights
been like on jones street
those many years ago,
coming home from a late shift,
classes in the morning,
a wednesday night. the two
of us playing house in that tiny kitchen
fridge full of take out. outside, the tenderloin
yearning in sirens and needles in the gutter.  
inside, smokes and whippets out the window
on the fire escape. your friends over. the wreckage
of our cd collections, off the floor and on a shelf
for the first time in years. where did i put my guitar.
when did i do any writing. was i good to you.
what must have the week nights
been like on jones street
those many years ago, when we waited out
a love affair. unsure how to punctuate the last line.