day 12: i borrow money but i never borrow cigarettes

i borrow money but i never borrow
cigarettes. i borrow names.
i lose parts of the computer; the keys,
the period and enter keys,
the panels on the back that keep the battery in the dark.
the tiny screws that are impossible to find.
she will catch me stealing
pictures from the living room
shelves. cigarettes stubbed out
on the sill and stuck in the rivets
where the window panel slid up
so easy
and the cold breathed out and stopped
the dust
in its coward tracks. i'm in love but i'm lazy, warbled across the lawn
weaving dark paths into the shadowed
and infinite bushes. the cars sweeping in time, my metronome, the cold on my ears came in singing.
the old song on its side
and leaping.