David and Galiath

David and Galiath

We went round back.
Your breathe smells.

Greasy onion rings.

There was a sign taped on the neighbor's screen door:
Only those who actually care about me can enter.

Next to a smaller sign taped above the door bell:
Push hard and for 10 seconds.

You said you had been a actor out in Gloucester, Maine.
Said I should come over. You were still unpacking but had a bean bag

I could sit on, that you'd fast forward to the part in the movie you say,
"Do you have a dime" to Jim Carrey at a coffee shop and he yells in your face -

Okay, I say knowing I won't.

The darker the alleys got, the more soundless I became with him. Arrogant
throwing around my mother's French maiden name, how I'd studied

under Yusef Komunyakaa, how I was constructing
life size paper mache replicas of David and Goliath.

You asked me one question.
What were they going to be doing?

What?
The David and Goliath statues.

I lifted my right foot up inches off the ground, Stomping in David's head, see like this.
I see, you said, looking at me in the dark.