Tim Lantz

Diese Leute

Mr. Clemmits slices a stranger in the crowded room,
and I am covered in what used to be somebody else,
gray matter
that used to believe in (perhaps) God
and understood (maybe) calculus.
Mr. Clemmits licks his fingers,
and the rest of the room goes back to dancing,
but the innards of a once man are still upon me;
his heart is at my feet.
Mr. Clemmits kicks it as he pours another beer.
I pick it up and tack it to the wall.
"This was—" I begin,
but somebody turns up the stereo;
I realize (too late)
that I don't even know who this was.
The dead man's left hand still clutches a pen—
he had been scribbling down a girl's number—
the cap lost among empty beer bottles on the floor.
The girl bites her thumb
and grips Mr. Clemmits by the groin.
They ascend the stairs to the room there,
blood on both of their shirts.
They've closed the door by the time I get to them,
the door to my room.
Suddenly I am concerned with my belongings,
forgetting whose former self is wrapped up
in my clothes.
I too am to blame.