I will not go to the crooked man’s house

already, I’ve cut my teeth on his belt buckle and self-flagellated in pursuit of warmth.

The Virgin Suicides (1999), Sofia Coppola

I will not go to the crooked man’s house 
already,  I’ve cut my teeth on his belt buckle 
and self-flagellated in pursuit of warmth, 
this hollow adulation. I tell myself: look farther 
than his cinder blocks, the rotten settee,
the stained mattress on the floor where you count 
stars on the carpet & sink to your knees,
where you ring the doorbell and say please swallow 
this sorrow and to his credit he leaves nothing 
behind. Rushing home down back-alleys, 
you hoist your trousers and try to bleach 
the crooked man’s capacious grin from 
your memory tape. White-ish pillow cases
hang on low lines and waft close to the ground,
like liquid headstones. They see this boy 
with red cheeks and matted hair, limping
from one penance to another, not even pursued
by a hungry stray. When you come back
to beg one more spindly embrace, the crooked man 
is kind enough to never ask: Where have you been? 
And how are you better than me?