Tank

Aboard a trolley my mind child squints to see as a tank, crushing terrain. You’re all business, your trolley

a trolley: book bag on though it chafes some old codger’s face. Phone Wi-Fi’d all over so you can whisper pet names to the stock exchange. I learn to 
translate 

moisture in the air, let it tell me what joints will hurt from it in a few years, what throb will prologue rain. I know things are different, but you look the same. You look like no one will 

get your thoughts from your expression. You wouldn’t bat an eye if you were on a tank rolling over a pedestrian. If I told you this trolley’s a tank, you wouldn’t raise an eyebrow as if to question. So I just shut up. Your feet, 

chrome bedecked, tapping out some much more mature tattoo. Maybe it’s your goodbye, if I didn’t miss you say it already. If I were your gloves, you’d pull your fingers out one by one as each decided it liked freezing better anyway. I don’t wish you’d glove me again as much since how you spoke to me Monday. I don’t try 

to pry laughter free from the corners of your eyes. I barely hope there’s any good humor there for me. We found out we liked what was under each other’s clothes at the same time as I found out that’s as deep as you’d let me go. Bare chested, 

you stomped onto the porch when I asked how old you were the first time you were ever known, and your silence said you never would be, you won’t decode. Now here we are 

aboard a tank that can’t just be a trolley when I need armor from how it feels to sit here next to you as more of you flees farther. I don’t know 

what I did wrong, exactly, I think it was wrong of me to try to make it right, so I tell myself without you the dark won’t feel less light, like 

when you softly snored big spooning me halfway off the bed ‘til I tumbled into what’s out there but you woke up just in time to pull me back to you instead