dear ,

on many nameless morns

i have observed your going-ons, close at hand

(not a stalker not a stalker- i tell friends, they snicker at my expense)

my gazing eyes straining upwards from blue-carpeted slums; my own

ridiculous doldrums

to the heavens (where you obviously came spiraling from, o human comet)

upwards to the ceiling

- if we should so much as make eye contact

down i go, right back into my cellar, the hole.

and if we are to come into being

why would i ever?

well, no! i never.

and.just as a weather report coming a day or so

too late

this is how the events proceed:

i am sure, so sure

my existence is an enigma to you

if you think twice, once or thrice

about it at all

(while pondering the imminence of another stock market fall.)
your tweed jacket,

smelling like my father's favorite aftershave

sweeps by my corner of the petty universe

kicked and down in the dirt, unaware of anything else but that

that scent

unaware

i fall into my grave.

the thoughts that bit at me like fleas-

well, i never.

you round the corner, you turn the bend.

and on days when our two paths don't collide, it's easier for me to pretend...

well i never knew you at all at all! show me your photo i wouldn't recognize it--

there are insurmountable blocks between us

blocks of concrete, hospitals, cement

really, what's the difference?

i could be beijing, you could be paris

we'd never meet

no bumping-elbows-rendezvous on an awkward city street.

"oh, hello."

"hey. hi. how ya doin'?"

aw

aw

kind sir

you never stick around long enough to let me answer...

/yet, would i? would i stick to my guns? would i let out a reasonable response coherent in my languages

or would my tongue go the way of the tower of babel?/

no. no. well, i never.

which one shall it be

love? infatuation?

i twiddle my thumbs and think of you as i stab my sandwich

like some primitive throwing spears into the back of a wooly mammoth

love? infatuation?

ha, ha, HA

more like emotional cancer!

yet

there are fantasies that play like films in my mind

you, full head of hair and broad shoulders, coming up on me from behind

a spring in your step, your walk full of love and american pep

turn me around like this is

the end of the last world war and you're a

pent-up soldier and i'm the nearest nurse

and again we're both born free of this curse.

there's confetti, child-like glee,

applause. fireworks.

no. no.

the climax is such a bore.

we found the parade, and we were another day late.

the confetti sat dull on the streets and everybody

was warm inside in each other's beds.

you aren't there, and so i commiserate

head in hands and lonely drives home to lonely apartments

to lonely microwaved dinners and lonelier magazines and wine that's been warmed by the

late summer sun. all so lonely, even the fake rubber plants. they're aching for your nonexistent touch.

in reality, though

if i'd been asked, shaking my head to avoid the burning

eye contact to put me right on the spot

- well, no. well, i never.

the bus stop is a trial

ah not even worthy of kafka’s meanderings

it is the start of what i perceive to be another

dreary, abysmal mistake of a day

where i would have in any other conditions

stayed in the confines of my bed

downstream, sleeping my life away.

hope is terribly underrated. i have accumulated a wealthy angst economy.

and then

as the rain came splashing down all around us

grey and heavy, full of pre-1950 melancholy-

you offered me your favorite moth-eaten sweater.

well, i never.