“This is my body,” he said, stretching across the table.
“What, a salt shaker?”
“It was at hand,” he said. “Listen, do you think it matters
that we’re at a diner on Seventh?
Or that you worked at the docks
before you knew me?
Or that they’ll tear me to ribbons?”
“It matters to me,” I said.
“Listen,” he said. “Here.” Then he poured
a cup of Fanta into a glass, no ice.
“This is a promise to you, made in my blood.
You now have me in your keeping
and in your memory.”
“Does it have to be Fanta?” I was going to ask,
but he looked so tired I begged off.
Two days later, he was gone.
But dreams fluorish
round heads that wake no more,
and before long,
a crowd gathered
at the diner on Seventh.