We got evicted with a hot tea kettle
drank chamomile from street corner bunk beds--
rolled our smiles as croissants out of the moon

It was only a matter of time before
the landlord figured out we were 
only paying in chocolate coins
and foil swaddled crackle-candy eggs--
I was surprised we had got to stay there
that long-- the fourteenth floor apartment
which would have been the thirteenth
floor if we didn't trust our numbers
more than the heights we built with brick-- 
we loved each other 
dangling over the spider-eye city--
blinking us through another bright hour--
New York never sleeps and neither do we--
our coffee pot is the handles of the skyline
written in cracked coca cola caps--
m&ms in or pockets is all we got for begging--
so we danced to the swollen bell of a french 
horn player-- leaning up again one
of the subway's centipede legs--
the tea kettle was still warm when 
they smacked the door with yellow phone
books-- said no one lives on candy anymore--
and we laughed because we do--
make wedding rings out of the wrappers--
no they aren't for us-- but we like
to marry ourselves every night
when we drink chamomile tea--
and the water was warm enough for
us to brew the pot here
from our bunk beds on the street corner-- 
sometimes people ask us why we sleep 
on separate pillows if we're so in love--
we don't share blankets well--
we drool dream-- coil as warm
as croissants-- butter layered 
between the sheets-- but in the morning
we do get
up in sync and start the dough
for the real croissants--
butter roll and folded us into 
the pavement-- the others watch
from alley way blanket forts--
and wonder how we conjure an oven
from a street lamp-- share butter
like lips-- have patience of
all of each other's layers--
there was always enough butter
to grow taller
than the fourteenth floor
we used to dangle from-- but
of course we still climb
a storm drain when it gets
too dark for them to notice us 
not waiting in the oven wracks
of our bunk beds-- stuffed elephants
and black bears to keep watch so
the tea kettle doesn't boil
over on the street lamp-- we're making
chamomile to counter act the 
bubble of the coffee pot in the 
billboards-- in the shoe-shuffle
dance of a stop-light-- blister
heel pop of a french horn--
just because we sleep on separate
bunks doesn't mean we don't make 
love layered croissants from
the top of the apartment building
they kicked us out of-- yes
we're the ones whose smile 
rose into the curve of the moon--
we lived on the thirteenth floor
unlucky as they come wrapped in tin foil--
we keep a tea kettle warm--
hot breath into the night air--
and the arachnid gaze of a city
watched us bake-- layer-- rise
flaky skin off our elbows--
what will we do with the bunk beds?
without a roof? 
sleep against a different
joint of the centipede--
lullaby in brass calliope--
my lover she is a baker like
me-- generous with butter
and the process of laminating 
these smiles--
we drool dream of a doughnut shop--
we don't share a coffee mug
because we don't share a bunk of
the bed--
use the yellow phone books to build a roof
alley way blanket fort of the night--
re-fill the tea kettle from the 
rain spout--
climb down from the gutter--
fold the eviction notice
into a paper airplane-- 
eat the chocolate coins and gamble
with butter and pillows--