I spent so much time trying to become part of the city, Tall buildings, bad affairs, the rush of light waves, And hurried taxis, the wrong arguments, The right song on my headphones, the sex Of male rage, cigarette burns, and feminist bartenders, When you're young you can write beautiful winter poems. You awake in beds of hurried dreams, And sleep like mountain air rising from a cooling stream. You own words like You will belong to me And lose belongings Like airport baggage. You visit the logic of earth and time Like a suitor. A magnifying glass. In a child's hand, you are thrilled the first time You realize you can burn something If you're able to focus long enough. You draw like you are seeing for the first time, A nude, and write like you are a new soul, Still not understanding. When you hold something, You try not to show your spasms of excitement. You believe the world When it tells you it sees you a sinless child. There comes that moment when you feel Your infidelities. You swallow hard, Cry alone, and hope nobody notices the dark circles beneath your eyes. There comes a time when The city and your body merge Into one being. You no longer feel like a postcard of the skyline And start to see yourself as one street In a vast place, with so many lives, Living in all these houses, Steeped in a thousand secrets That run deep into your cobblestones.
Oak Roads: Poetry and Musings 