anywhere

when we were younger

and in new york-

and dragging Christmas trees over our shoulders

through the snow covered west side,

and passing out in the park

barefoot after two bottles of afternoon merlot,

and building tables from doors

and dreaming of interactive poetic image based art shows,

and excited about hanging your photos in that cafe,

and hungover conversations over brown rice meals at Zuni cafe

and long shifts at that restaurant for old white people

on the upper east side:

who argued about nonsense and never tipped adequately,

and the hostess who invited me to her place

and locked herself in the bathroom,

sliding incoherent notes under the door,

until I lost patience and let

her notes pile up in silence,

and your apartment where those sunflowers

that were meant to symbolise our dreams

wilted and lingered for longer

that we expected- I wanted to be Jack Kerouac,

or was that you,

and I was meant to be Ginsberg.

They’re both dead

but we are here:

timezones apart-

bald and grey,

staying connected through text messages

about push ups

and this subdued yearning,

listening to Childish Gambino

on my daughter’s toy headphones,

because I can’t be bothered to buy

things that might bring joy-

painfully aware that no poem,

at least not one that I might write,

will make any difference

to anyone.

Anywhere.

The second craft beer

on (a school) Monday night

is making me nostalgic (again):

is this the best that friendships can do?

Years of emotional investments

only to return biweekly

animated .gif and inflatable hearts?