The man is water
filled
with heavy sand
he drips
onto the porch
next to me
carries a half-eaten bagel
between his teeth
braids his long
pumpernickel hair
with his hands
he finishes his bagel
he lights a cigarette
he calls his wife
he lets his cigarette
scar the silver railing
bits of ash scatter
confused
into my coffee
he coughs to the bushes
he says to his wife
I wish you were here
instead of on the phone
I would buy you ginger cookies
I would wash my hair
I would hide my cigarettes
I would admit
to plowing this daylight
with my teeth
my lips
can’t hold your name.