Out of Stone

I used to watch Ronnie take off his leg—
the buckles, straps and socks that padded

his red, chapped stump above the knee,
or was it below? I can’t remember now.

Three decades blur my backward look
so all I see is him: a North Philly tough

with a tumbled heart who smoked & drank
enough to lure a college girl on the fringe.

I loved the dangers of his face—how boys
went from sweet to beast, grew beards

and appetites that healed even as they hurt.
Enough to scour my skin insatiable pink

as he pressed his space face close to mine
under a four foot poster of Ziggy Stardust.

He rasped a rough path to my dorm room,
and this was art, not seduction, as we made

raw contentment out of our disfigurement,
two freaks carving each other into being.

 

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