I am carrying my dry cleaning in Manhattan like a poem
Not someone longing for a woman
When I swipe my Metrocard
I think to say a prayer
I will not let someone who has never ridden
Run me out
My body loves breakups
My heart does not
Still I do dream of myself there
Up on the 92nd Street Y podium
YOU CHERISH THE UNSPOKEN
My memory is purple: blue of the Maddog mixed
with vodka, mixed with red light of the Space Odyssey
sex motel room. When the jacuzzi got too steamy, we sat
on the tiles, pointing at the porn onscreen, listening
to music that moves from the bottom up. You refuse
the top down on principle.
In the morning, I am ringmastering my mad dash to McDonald’s
before the breakfast hours end. I want our teeth to sink into
sweet squishy egg blanketed in processed American. Back
in the city, the need for greens is mutually felt, so you
do the ordering: stewed vegetables, two salads, tzatziki.
I slump down low, reach out to touch the tips of your fingers,
watch you fl are up at others and dim comfortably back at me.
You cherish the unspoken. I want to name it so desperately.