“Signed by—”, “Ekphrastic on a Bus Stop Bench”, and “Love Poem To Styrofoam”

By CS Crowe

Signed by—

The bookseller found the box abandoned on the steps.

Someone, a sister, an aunt, or a cousin, 

They gathered up everything in his desk drawers.

Sixty years of life fit neatly onto a single shelf

In the back of the used bookstore on Seventh Street.

After a certain point, it was worth more to them

That he died quickly and quietly. Time was precious,

Like four novels, read until their bindings broke,

A dog-eared, underlined, and annotated kind of love.

Worth enough to forget in a place so sacrosanct

Even the dust found it could not caress it,

Or worthless enough to prop up that uneven leg—

How easy it was for something, once balanced, to tip

Just a little too far; this was how stars went supernova, 

A distant cosmos of broken glass and stardust, 

Like a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles; prescription,

Nestled, not for the first time, on a book instead of a nose.

They would spend the rest of their life bending light

From the back window into a constellation of faded leather.

The bookseller said they’d throw them out as they passed,

But their arms were always full, their hands always busy,

If his family did not have the time to sort this stack

Of letters bound in yellow twine, all marked return to sender, 

How could the bookseller put a price on unread words? 

Each of his letters, signed by the same three initials:

All that remained of a life—never again to be touched. 

---

Ekphrastic on a Bus Stop Bench

You were a street busker in blue face paint—

Steel drums when fingers tapped just the right spot.

You didn’t mind it a little rough; you’d seen it all.

When the city workers ripped up the bus stop shelter,

Your faded paint began to peel, sun-bleached teal, 

So we gilded you with stickers and kisses, 

With knives and car keys. Our kind of urban planning.

I asked you to tell me a story, and you told me

To pick at the corner of a Trans Flag Sticker, like a child—

Non-consensual dd/lg play? You’re better than this.

But we’re not. This generation, we don’t leave our number 

On the walls of the bathroom stall. We’re more personal.

We buy 200 business cards in bulk. Hand them out in heels.

We stick QR codes to bus stop benches. Scan for a good time.

When there was nothing to keep the rain and snow

Off your shoulders, the branches grew to shade us,

Like Jonah waiting for Nineveh to fall while it flourished.

Beneath the sticker, I found a name and number, 

Scratched so hard into the paint it tattooed the metal:

The story was, these were the same person, years apart.

You were the only one trusted with this memory.

Live this weekend. Calypso band. Drag show. 

Yard sale. We buy houses. Private guitar lessons.

When the bus was late, everyone waited with us.

When the city workers came to pry you up

All of us moonstruck sticker and graffiti sluts, 

Came together to make love one last time

On the cold curves of your peeling paint. 

This was how I knew you were a work of art:

You became a koan of the concrete curb:

Four rusty bolts support a bench, nowhere to sit.

---

Love Poem To Styrofoam

Like my love for you it lasts

As long as microplastics, 

Which might be forever; 

Schrodinger’s pollution,

Poisoned cat in a box love;

Don’t worry. It’s only toxic 

If it kills you when you eat it.

What about if it makes you 

Infertile? Depressed? Queer? 

If they were putting chemicals

In the water to make the frogs gay, 

I’d know because my trans friends

Would drink from the damn tap.

Instead, they buy Brita filters

That promise to purify 99% 

Of whatever is least healthy 

At the present time of writing.

Let me dream of this moment:

It would be a seven beer night, 

And I’d ask them, lovingly, like a kiss,

Have you had enough water today?

I would smile as they ran to the kitchen,

Stuck their head beneath the faucet, 

And the water. Fluoride and testosterone,

Flowed directly into their mouth, 

A single line from their tongue to the sea.

---