amphibian

a red-nasal chef, adopted and repressed
with magical ideas of connection
sharpening his knives, giving up smoking
and his lost penny.
we cant remember his name dicing onions
waiting for the conversation to finish
hoping for life to start.
he disappears in the morning; my hangover remembers something

gregory jerks his umpteenth introduction
with a new paper doll each time: josefina likes to dance (his voice so sweet)
we swing her song about twinkling stars and falling bridges.
he speaks of maine and his journey in two years from now. now.

he will cry in excitement and smiles through rotting teeth.

we read about the boston fire from printed sheets
and he laughs anxiously.
his navy jacket hides him through holes.

who else is there to tell me stories?
look into my eyes for five minutes of my life
let me sleep through the night
and wear sweet perfume.