March 5, 2018


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.


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?

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