Night Support

You will argue that it's none of my concern

who you embrace,

what fruit your mouth accepts and expresses

as the pulp and sweetness of your desire.

Doesn't sick soil poison every leaf?

Doesn't richness bless every bloom?

I am the Quantifier and Keeper of Carnal Particulars.

The muscle of his shoulder beneath your cheek

 two Novembers ago?

Bin 47, lot 5.

The dusky sound of her woodsmoke voice

on a bridge above the river on a night last July?

Shelf 21B, Warehouse 2, Compound A.

You just wait.

Let that grating emptiness come over you when you're alone

remembering his paint-stained fingers

or the caramel curl of her hair.

You'll need to retrieve it then,

more than blooms need stems,

sharp as a outcasts need warm mercy.

There I'll be,

rolling my cart to space 4G7 in the auxiliary bay,

requisitioning the very thing you need,

sending it out,

replacing it,

maintaining inventory and your equilibrium.

I'm good at what I do

because I understand need and weakness and lack.

Envelope G, in file B7GK4

should contain your wicked smile,

the angle of your teeth, your lips,

your tongue,

and the 27 catalogued effects they had on my dissolving bones.

Inventory shows them on-hand,

but though I search your name, 

your skin,

your scent,

I can't find any particle of you;

just a ringing emptiness

and this paltry job to fill it.

______ 

for "job title" at Toads.

When I was in the USAF, I worked night support in a warehouse, finding aircraft parts for delivery to the flight line. I drew on that, for this.