The Routine

walking through the Manhattan mist
past the well-to-doers
and liberals until graduation,
I drew my jacket tighter,
stood my collar up against the horizontal rain
and ducked into the deli
for a sandwich made fresh, yesterday
and black coffee in a branded cup.
"Thank you" she would chime.
Each time, the same rhythm
the same, hollow sentiment
the same pasted-on smile.
I jay-walked across fifth avenue
to the horde of student-smokers
nineteen-year old world-changers-
debating politics,
and the economy,
and Shakespeare.
"He's such a bastard."
"What now?"
"I should be allowed to sleep in class. It's freedom of expression."
The glass doors,
fogged from the gray-
swung open
and I breezed past the insecurity guard
and climbed the single-wide escalator
to find a table,
a shadow in which to sit.
The clock ticked on
while I pretended to read Flannery O'Connor
and understand her droning on and on.
And it kept ticking.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Tick.
To remind me-
"Make it last. Make it worth it."

Lennon

Wake me up and give me the perfect words-
with your imperfect speech.
Speak matter-of-factly,
truthfully,
of what it was like-
and what you always meant to say
when you said what everyone else heard
and didn't understand.

Or don't tell me anything.
Just come over and sit down in the chair
and watch me sit,
and think
and try to come up with something worthy of a minute's notice.

Trite,
wrong,
boring,
forced-
un-genius.

Tell me what to say, John.
Show me how to write.

the long walk

I asked you once,
one night, walking home-
when you caught up to me at the corner.
it was cool out,
and breezy
and I asked you,
how I could really know
what I should do with my life-
where the happiness was supposed to come from
and when the self-assurance kicked in.
But you never answered me
because I never really asked you.
We only walked
and spoke of the weather,
and what was,
and what used to be.
I made vain attempts at flattery
and eloquence
and you only told me to watch out for taxis.
And you let me walk with you
so long as I kept up
all the way to where the trees met the bricks
and the gates across the street shut at sundown.
But then I was too far North
and East-
and you were right where you should be.
So you bid me good night and demanded I sleep at some point.
And I left the one way street that ran opposite mine,
traced the edges of the park-
turned westward
to the room with the leaky sink
and the dim light
and crumbling walls.
And I sat,
and I waited.
Until someone else I never actually asked-
only told me to think.
And now,
as I am-
with my answer in hand,
I only want to tell you.

And you're no longer where you should be.

Back Burner

She stands - smiling,
perfect.
She arranges the flowers he brought her
places them-
just so
in the crystal vase in the foyer,
a gift-
seen,
registered,
bought, and wrapped
now on permanent display
in the immaculate
picture-perfect home.
With a cake in the oven
she runs back to the world she knew
years ago
when she was another one of many
thinking,
raising hands
raising questions
all too soon raising children
who run in precisely at 3:15 every afternoon
and beg to lick the batter bowl.
So the book goes back into hiding
until tomorrow
and tomorrow
and tomorrow.