suspended service

I catch the 3:30 out of downtown, ride
south-east and ten years ago,
to June-Thursday rain and ditch-grown daisies,
to pink skin and piano lessons,

to gin-clumsy hands in a dusk-dim tent,
lust turning my guts like a cement mixer,
fingering diminished chords on your ribs,
tonguing minor scales down your spine;

to you, slow-eyed, cackling and drunk,
tasting of cheap vodka and cherry lip gloss,
burning love letters by the fistful,
stirring the ashes barefoot and gasping.

Does it hurt? I ask.
Doesn't matter, you say.