No. 5 / No. 22 - Connor Devore

after Mark Rothko

The first time we had two drinks, I think,
was when I knew there had always been
a car that wouldn’t start in the rain
and a flight arriving in LaGuardia, despite all wishes
that it wasn’t; these events pressed themselves
through sweating pint glasses and aluminum cans
of Budweiser and into our palms, an absolute need
for us to have those two drinks.

That engine was never meant to turn over; post nasal drip
still fresh on the back of our tongues, hands curled
tight around wet pant legs, hoping that a sign
had fallen into our laps and screamed, on sprawling canvas,
that we could keep our seats damp forever.

The first time I saw a Rothko I was holding your hand,
not by coincidence, but because that was always
the first time I would see a Rothko.

That first time—in Lillian’s Music Store, smoking inside,
ashing on vinyl booth cushions—we had always had two drinks
with strings like pop-can-telephones waiting for us
to pick up from that room in New York; heavy tones
of orange and yellow and red vibrating down the line
between the fingers of the switchboard operator
connecting our call.