It began with a cowboy.
Unlike a tin figure in the toy shop
or that ex-lover you could never identify
under the rain. For one,
he didn’t have enough tickets
to occupy a place in my Helsinki-where,
every half hour, windows shifted
to fit the beetle scenes in the wallpaper.
His boots were cheap,
sewer-skin bitter and scuffed
by coffee grounds. I had a difficult time
stashing my seven-year itch
under an oily mug. At that point,
he asked for another round
of whiskey and, of course, everybody
began insisting the world was flat,
that I should lie down on something soft,
not that pile on the floor –
incredibly hard and sticky around
the joints – which everybody noted offhand
as what’s-her-name’s-husband.