Drew Carey lives in Los Angeles, I live in Oregon.
I still see Cleveland in Carey’s pierogi shaped breasts.
Still see Cleveland in my square blast furnace shoulders.
Soot and sulfur are trapped inside the slits of our
belly-buttons. The grease of generations of Cleveland
steel workers balled up inside. The train tracks over grown
with Queen Anne’s Dingy Lace is the hair that trails
the bottom of my stomach. I can only imagine inside
Drew Carey’s pants is an aging house, the Ghost of Cleveland,
waving softly in the bushes, pale and luminous.