The Pain Museum Poem by Charles Malcolm

'I can write about anything, ' I said
before I sat here.

'That first night and the cake mix.
Chicken sandwiches and Cuervo gold.
Stargazing on a pull-out couch.
Your pale skin and your pink pajama pants.
Going down and driving too fast
until my car and your socks caught fire.

The appointments and the vitamins
and the talks and our tangled fingers.'

Even after a bottle of whiskey
and eight years six months and four days,
the best I can do is that dusty list,
in quotes.

I meant what I said
as we sat at that final bar
and I am still
trapped
beneath the glass
with you.