The shower shouldering my high
school bedroom won’t twist fully right. It’s
never fully warm. Never fully full. Tyler
installed it wrong. Handyman errors are
bar trivia trivial until you can’t steam. Consent
or not you have to see you. Likewise, lead is immaterial
until it’s punched inside you.

Tyler, did the pigs apply first aid?
Can gauze patch, can pressure collapse?
We’re 17. You’re telling me you had two girls
over. I’m not telling you your blue eyes echo
the B on your hoodie. Lake Tahoe envies your blue.
One of those girls is Olivia. She once butt dialed
my home as she straddled me. I laid in Devey’s truck
bed on the 3am drive home & felt almost
complete. She loved you, though. Not me.
Did the lead pierce your lungs? Your pickup’s rims?
Did it chip country gravel road after exiting
your flesh & ribs? Tyler, we’re 13, &
we’re on that cruise ship in DC. It’s a bass clash of culture.
Those kids showed us how to gyrate. I’ve never felt so white.
White rolling paper. Ms. Lawrence senior year. I was the most lit
but you gave me a run. We should have smoked more.
You tell me about the bodily cycles of relationships
& I share that Saunders makes most sense after a few filthy
bong rips. I inhaled those in a shower that still won’t heat.

Let’s roll back the years in neutral.
Let’s have you redo this faucet.
Maybe then, we can stop blood
from leaking out of you.

Tyler, I finally found myself a tattoo worth getting.
Tyler, the pigs who punched you with bullet holes didn’t know
you have a faucet to fix in my home.

Tyler, you don’t even need to be handy.
Just come back a man.