Cleanup Crew

Someone dropped a photo in the thread

of the place with the $2 wells and the sticky floor.

I can still feel the grit of the bathroom tiles

pressing into my knees while the fan rattled overhead,

moving the warm, sour air in circles.

You were folded over the rim of the bowl,

and I reached out to gather the mess of it—

that thick, blonde weight, smelling of smoke and vanilla.

I held it back like a heavy, golden rope,

trying not to look at the drain or your shoes.

We didn't say much on the walk to the car,

just the sound of the gravel under our feet

and the way you kept shivering in the heat.