I Should Have Killed You in Bayonne
I should have killed you in Bayonne-
in that languid, idle sun,
stretched against the press of grass
on the rise above the baseball path.
It is a town of hands and shanks,
tinned in aluminum-sided cans.
The path they walk is regular.
Coffee steams from many cups.
Women travel plump to fat.
Their thighs gird the kitchen stove.
Men still wear their Sunday best
each Sunday afternoon.
The sky was perfect.
Your face, perfect, too.
Longing lines of pain and laugh
issued expectant from your loom.
I should have killed you in Bayonne.