9:37 AM (5/4/09)

the morning sun
cold and callous,
peeks through the green shades
and the windowsill.
casting a white glow
on your milky skin
frayed, unwashed flannel
across your navel.
wet auburn hair
on a pillowcase
yellowed with age.
my tight trousers on
a belmont chair,
pockets jingle
with Roosevelt dimes.
Italian leather
upon the soles of my feet.
the hallway outside,
crowded with bodies
drifting sleepily
to dreamland fey,
I tiptoe over
on Cuban heels
out the doorway
onto the street.
now a cup of coffee
across the campus,
a pack of Luckies
in my back left pocket.
I knew you’d leave soon
my hand in your heart but not
in your affairs.
I take a bus down boulevards
of green and blue and red.
the morning light is gold
like amber ale,
as you’re laughing over cake
and tea, and handmade sandwiches,
social aspirations and
oratorical congratulations.
I smoke another cigarette,
put it out in the noir
of my coffee cup
and fall asleep
on the steps of the greek theater.
meanwhile you’re driving
with Cat Stevens on the radio
and laughing to yourself
because life is joy.
I’m dreaming about
Marseilles,
revolvers and roustabouts.
1:13, and I start stirring.
buy a gyro, and at the bookstore
an out-of-print book, 1973
“The French Foreign Legion” and
John Cheever, a red dust jacket
under my arm, just them
and me.
you pass me on the crème-color sidewalk
and I look the other way,
pretending to hear some drunk saxophone.
I still feel your eyes on
the cold of my shoulder
but the girl doesn’t break
her pride is too hard to swallow.
I stop at the railroad tracks
and watch as you walk
in an ill-fitting sundress
over the awkward angle
of your shoulders,
always going
somewhere.
I think
you have everybody and
you think
I don’t need anyone
but
we’re both really thinking
the same thing.
what a shame…
neither of us can tell.