the neighbors used to call the cops on us
at least
two times a week,
the other five
were the days
that we quit drinking.
I was only happy when I was with her
we only drank
when we were together
sometimes
I needed to work
sometimes
she needed to paint
I remember those days
sitting in the back of a white van
driving from Long Island City to Wall St.
-carrying ladders and curtains
down alleys
to service elevators,
watching for the sun
to do its’ revolution over the
Empire State building
drowning itself
in the Hudson
finally allowing
me
to drive turnpikes
and parkways
to get home
to her.
she’d wake up at five
or six,
from october to april
I don’t think she ever saw
the sun.
we stole cat food so we had money for weed
we didn’t eat because of the cocaine
but I kept working
and she kept sleeping
my parents wanted to know why she didn’t get a job?
how could I explain the obvious?
she was too beautiful for work
for orders
for discipline.
and for a girl who knows this
there’s no such thing as enough
my back hurt all the time from the grind
my face hurt all the time from her fists
I’ll never live with a puerto rican again
when she got bored she left
when she got angry she hit
we fought hard
we’d make up hard
the neighbors called the law for both
each would leave me
bleeding
and bruised.
and when the cops showed up
it was hard to explain,
that I was actually having the best time of my life