Burke left at Gate 31, Newark to Singapore,
nicorette in shirt pocket, kissing Molly goodbye,
China already there:
gunpowder, printing press, suicide.
A tee-shirt Burke saw:
SINGAPORE - A FINE
CITY in caps, a dozen crimes
listed on back - spitting gum,
urinating in an elevator,
a stick figure to depict
fucking up the ass
got life, weed and horse
One-piece, black, strap over each shoulder,
wet pot belly pulled from the whirlpool:
leg lifted over ceramic edge, foot propped
on the first of three steps going down.
Burke's long gone, I watched Molly get out,
towel wrapped around waist, fingernail in mouth,
hair bound tight with rubber band.
four and twenty strands of blonde,
long, drenched and frayed at the end,
her eyes fixed hard on smoke
drawn from a white fag.