i could be

write me a cool night, windy
jacket zipped, sleeves pulled down
hints of yesterday’s storm drizzling
nothing really
call it solitude
beneath a starless haze
add a distant city bus
and a thousand tires
rolling through downtown
an omelet
made with butter please
an iron table
a black sandwich sign near the curb
swinging just enough to be noticed
a man donning a red apron
washing the window table behind thick glass
(he’s warm, unable to feel tonight’s air
rush onto his eyelids)
“89” in bold type
clipped to a heavy purple ball
beside my computer
a green canvas purse
on damp cement
looped to my faded denims
and me, with hastily arranged hair
full of rubber bands
clips and hair spray
wrapped in darkness
and streetlight
entranced by a white screen
and an obsessive desire
to recreate one instant
for this moment, i am poetry

This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *