X IS FOR XANAX

You gather

in ringlets.

The teen in 

the falafel truck sees

the coil 

of your tattoo. 

Your spine seduces

like rain

you show his sister

your muscle

your mountains

you shine

categorical teeth. 

The teen

in the falafel truck, 

you think, 

is a teen who 

has seen women by

the pool.

You walk toward

him 

in new sun

you ask 

why he is 

late. 

With your face open

you ask 

about favors. 

The teen 

in the falafel truck 

is silent.

You sing

to him.