The Bronx

Sunlight. Headache. Her eyes open slowly
heavy from too much gin.
I’ve never fucked anyone from the Bronx before.
She looks around for something familiar,
sees the head buried in the pillow
remembers Irish music, a long, long cab ride.

He stirs, leaves the bed, returns with a plate
of overcooked eggs and sliced bread.
She asks for toast. No need, bread’s already brown.
Returning to the heap of blankets
he pulls her close and they search again
for the excitement that brought them here.

Where’s the subway, she asks.
Wait, he cries, write your name here on the wall,
to show me mates I’ve had a woman.
She scrawls quickly, turns to leave.
Wait, he cries, tell me what I said
that made you come with me. I want to use it again.