Revisionist Poetry – LOVE, v7. (scratchy jukebox edition – Tom Waits style)

i don’t know love by the book —
i know it by the smell of your coat after rain,
by the neon bruise that hums outside our window,
by a coffee cup that rings like a bell when you set it down.

i love a smile that’s crooked like a bad harmonica,
it sneaks up on me from the shadows, pins me to the stool,
and makes my ribs play a slow, rusty tune.

your eyes — two alley lamps with secrets —
they pull me like a tide of old promises,
i’d dive in there barefoot, pockets full of matchbooks.

your hands are wrenches and lullabies,
they fix the stubborn clatter in my chest,
they sign small poems on the back of my palm.

your hugs fold me like a newspaper on a rainy morning,
they smell like burn toast and dryer lint and safe places,
they press my knees back into their proper town.

your laugh is a slot machine clicking out luck,
your whisper is a train between stations, steady and close,
your questions pry the hinges of my lazy doors.

i love the way you argue — two drunk saints trading blows,
and how we come out shining, patched and stubborn,
like lamps that wear their dents with pride.

i love your generosity — the last cigarillo, the spare dime,
the way you hand someone else the last slice of pie.
i love the foolish artists you carry around like pets,
those hopeful clowns who give away their best costumes.

i love your courage: an old dog that keeps getting up,
the way you step into the street even when the lights lie.
i love the small renovations in your heart, the muffled hammer,
the quiet scaffolding — working, always working.

you are the picture in my pocket, the coin in the jukebox,
the streetlamp that keeps time with my bad shoes.
i may not be able to name the thing in a proper way,
but when the rain starts speaking and your breath finds mine,
i fold my hat, tip my head, and say with a crooked grin:

baby — in this busted town of bone and neon,
with a heart full of patchwork and a mouth full of songs,
i love you.