Underneath the overpass on Brighton Street just south of Sam's, we talked awhile.nThe race of cars and dustbowl trash, Familiar sounds and walking fast to beat the storm.nProtected by an overhand, the streets to shine in sideways rain, in summertime.nA pile of print out on the street, the message blurred in bleeding ink, a memory.nThe cigarettes that lost their steam, the coffee mixed with nicotine, a bit jittery.nnShe says, Take what you get from me now, we're burning the evidence.nWaste not a word or a sound, nor attempts at eloquencenNo baby, I'm not impressed.nTake what you get from me now, we're burning the evidence.nWaste not a word or a sound, in minutes we won't exist.nNo baby, we don't exist.nnFurther south to have a drink, that Spanish bar, the wine that tastes like fruit.nBloodroot lips and mallow eyes, strategic sips and smiles disguised, it's been awhile.nAcknowledgment comes hours late, the rain has bleared, the cab the wait, new furniture.nThe bed, the boughs, the pillow case, the ringing bells, the trim and lace, the obvious.nnTempted sailor lost on tides he should have never crossed, a siren calls.nA sailboat that's rocked and tossed, the body floats, the will is cast below.nAnd in the depth of sunken dreams, a treasure chest, a sea of green to math her eyes.nThat stare into the unlived lives of everything you want but wouldn't try,nYou'd like to try.nnShe says, Take what you get from me now . . .