Pique.

I remember the splatter when
your feet splashed into the pool
of dirty water on the street
sounding a discordant tune.
I can call back on an afternoon
when your hands clutched beer
and your fingers moved aimlessly
switching songs on the CD player.
I recollect your neck and your
head slowly losing its hair
while you made little secret
of how much you didn't care.
but I can't conjure up images which
evoke minutes of delay
and you clamped to my skin
endearing love like crumbling clay.