The change in your pocket always jingled
when you sat staring out the back window,
a Roman god in thought.
I can see your thoughts mangled in the trees.
I gave up on remembering you a while back,
a psychological thing, they say.
like a twinkle in the mind—
jingle in a pocket.
I give you to my words now—recreate you
like Prometheus from paper and ink—
I build my statue next to yours, staring out
the window—Castor and Pollux exposed
in stone.
The smell of aftershave.
The smell of aftershave.
and the eternal jingle.
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