Patrick Williams

P a t r i c k   W i l l i a m s

On Departure

We men

were gifted

switchblades.

On each, a bump

to lock, a push

to the hilt

to fold its blade.

Mine broke

with decorum

in the back

of a Metropolitan

Avenue taxicab.

Left the avocado

leatherette in shreds,

a lime whose rind

was scarred for twists.

It’s never bad

to be the first

to leave, we say,

over and over again.  

Her Pose

Pointing at a single wrinkle

in at least a decade’s

bulk of dusty candlemelt.

A hectare of knotted rope

gets the same treatment,

but with flash this time.

Look, she says, I found

something little in this.

It’s a gift for you.

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