After Sunset, Black

After sunset, black

moves over last

wet light of April.

I remember you

against me, turning.

Ellis has a mole

on his lower lip, right

in the middle of it, as if

his lip had been birthing a baby

rat and died during labor--

the tiny bald head forever

stuck in red exit, never able

to breathe; to thank Ellis

for giving it life; to share

a cigarette with Ellis at rush hour;

to love Ellis

as only a son can love his father;

to comb Ellis' hair each morning before

leaving to scour the city for food, for

a penny or two to bring back to

Ellis' crumbling hands;

to coo molten lullabies

into his ears as Ellis falls

asleep each night on 42nd street;

to hold and heave his body

into the concrete,

as the world slowly tips

on its axis, so Ellis won't slip

off the edge,

that POP of flesh hitting air,

that brief shhhh

just before the scream.