The street bucks black and bustles. Men brush “dirt off their shoulders” and I wonder why they don’t choose clean shirts. People don’t write poetry any more so don’t dare call this a poem. Maybe I’m a creation or a distraction- a love note or a fraction of a way to get off computers and phones- the old city groans.
What if we've been alive forever and we lost track of the time?
I saw a future where I'm 30 and I turn to you and say "Let’s run out of here and go everywhere." You laugh, but I’m all serious when I promise to go with you. There’s mischief in the moon tonight; I ache to learn what makes you nervous.
I’ve pondered and wandered, yonder and farther in June’s hot NY breezes and July’s trees and teases. August was a wheel around, now it’s September and how can I write right and make the wind blow you to my side tonight?
The country I love is one where our work works and we sing long songs around a bonfire that burns off love and never needs sleep or food. Been out over-thinking that I’m over out-thinking how it’s taken a long time of riding the wrong line to find the light wine that makes my rhymes fine.
There’s a spot under your glass of MaCallan where the table’s empty and no less places to be than ideas of how to get you there. Your wit is cunning and you style so stunning. Your banter has a way of turning sexual and I selfishly hope every word is wearing a disguise to hide that it’s actually all about me.
As these warm summer days set slowly orange we’ll pat each other on the back and say “good game” as we promise the next time we’ll meet very differently.
Then the sky is still again. Won’t you stay here my friend? You took a hard left and bamboo shoots fell from your hair. Carried by the wind they splintered across the road, lost as we were half-nude and drenched in firelight.
What looks like a freak out might just be shedding (which I’m happier with than treading.)
Everyone who went to NYU is a little bit hipster.