under strobe lights, your breath
grazes the lawn of my neck
while I stare in fascination

at the sweat-glimmered girls
dancing. You are quick to ask
my name and pull me on stage

for karaoke. We sing like
we are incapable of shame.
You ask me to go home with

you and I agree. It isn’t until
I stand at the head of your bed,
that I notice the elastic peeking out

of your hair. It isn’t until you compare
your body to a run-down barn
awaiting a hurricane to split it

apart, that I realize you have cancer.
So, we lay under your wrinkled sheets
with the lights on. You peel off your wig—

throw it into the hamper by your nightstand.
Stroke me here, you say. And I do.
I stroke your head

like we have known each other
forever. Like I’m the last man
you will ever get to touch.