Why did you do it?

Because it was twilight. Spring.
A long way from home.
The sky was aluminum, splattered with grease.
There were strangers in the bus stop shelter,
lofty promises made, most of them
lies, and I knew it. I did it
because the garbage truck was rattling,
blinking toward me through my boredom, the way
my skin didn’t fit on my face. Because the rain
smelled like mocha with oil of orange
I used to drink late at night with John Arthur,
scratching out all the words and scribbling new ones.