What about me?
I’m not much of a dresser,
a pretty good looker.
(Or is it watcher?)
Got beer on my old shoes,
glitter on my new ‘Crew pants.
An artist—
at least for the children of
my part-time.
Still searching for a good girl,
and still finding the bad bitches.
And then—
I’m at your doorstep.
In your crusty Old New York
apartment corridor where
everyday you shuffle languidly to
a job you hate to love.
Even though I love your hate-shuffle,
your morning curses,
and especially your sleepy stumbles
Out the bathroom door.
Would you mind?
Of course not,
nostalgically holding your grocery bag.
You eat celery, veggie chips,
Greek yogurt, and cheese.
But I guess you forgot the juice you like…
Would I mind?
God no.
I live across the way now,
work with children,
look messy, but
I have virtues that might
make your hair flip,
or your eyes twinkle,
or your skirt flutter,
or simply fall.
And you have such a way
of alive-ness:
A voice that is audible even to my
twitching ear bone;
Hands that could tear me
gently apart—
I watch violent
tears streaming down your
unnecessarily massive umbrella—
Or is that the season’s downpour
On my featureless face?
And you have such a way
Of novelty:
Of enlivening us,
the un-enlightened;
Of finally reinstating—
please forgive my trite reference
to this-us-me-you—
our pillar.
No phallic jokes please.
My muse is with me now.
So then—
Would you mind?
Yes.
You would?
No, but would you?
God no.