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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.