“I’m here in New York City!” This is Bronx-like,
directly outside the corner of Frank’s;
old classmate, he no poet. The
Christmas eyes look blearily up at the rain.
What, no rain? Adrenalin is therefore pumped.
I’m just damned excited. Book after book
is shit: Shit: suave lies, cringing billboards.
Now I’m at Fenwick’s grabbing a burger.
I used to eat burgers. Nothing is more ridiculous
than my first vacation since 1997. Four targets:
one funky hat, children’s questions, potato chips,
earthquakes. I invited him over for the season premiere.
He accepted. I shake him when he’s almost fallen.
Pretends to fall. More than a decade mellow.
Me has been. Him passionate, aggressive; reminds me
of the boundaries I haven’t crossed in years.
His true colors. I get over it. More snow than
rain, these days. Poetry flaps on flagpoles, eroticized
and otherwise. I lift my mouth to the latté.
Everything is a process. I live on NBC and wait on my hamburger.
