"Just James" by Anthony Frame

~

The gangliness of his arms,
reminiscent of dewy trees
during lakeside mornings, matches
the slouching limp of his back.
Silhouetted in the streetlight,
James turns the key, opens his door
and laughs about driving drunk
through the Michigan back roads.

~

He confessed a deep desire to exit the shower and find
a young wife, weighed down by pregnancy, waiting in
     the hallway with her arms crossed like scissors. She would lean
     her chipped fingernails against miniature Monets and shoot a glimmering stare
that would leave him more dazed than any combination
     of drinks.
His leather jacket would cover their lamp and his
     fridge would ache
for juice boxes. And I knew this was his last
     Saturday night.

~

His truck’s wheels tremble
over the snowy banks
ignored by the morning’s
plow. His smile, flickering
like snowflakes passing
through car lights, exits
my mind. But his dome light
remains, nothing more
than a reflection
of the moon against
the blinded snow piles.

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