stop thinking about it
my smile forces the sky agape
my fingers m o u s e around yours
I want to caper with ghosts ; they seem to be
circling you
(do you want to walk?)
I want to chase you
Monday is wearing its Sunday best
the babysitters are sprawled across rooftops sipping beer
and the parents are here with us
all plastic forks and gold watches—bellies and egos full
i watch the man with rusted eyes and calloused fingers
smoke a cigarette—only the filter
love makes you desperate
see: resourceful
he seems to be having more fun than we are
every day is memorial day for him, at least
(is that what you’ll tell your kids?)
Probably.
I just want to eat snow cones and hold your hand
there’s no poetry there, sorry.
There are no pools in the hotels guarding central park, either
maybe the plaza / to be wealthy, well…
I don’t want to love more
equal or lesser value
(I thought we were in come-down love)
i don’t want to tell you that love is the come-down
stop thinking about it
This article appears in August 2014.
