(Written *mumble mumble years ago.) Posted for National Poetry Day.
1st Ave Coffee Conversation
Smoke from my coffee slides across the glass
of a 1st Ave coffee shop as you rattle off
(I keep thinking of sewing machines)
about who you ran into recently
that you wished had faded forgotten
–a bad dream.
Fake smiles plastered on (the only cheap
jewelry you wear) that never touch
corrupt your smirking, cynical cat’s eyes
— Social civility too automatic by now
for you to be any different—
And as you slide on talking I sip
slowly from words and bitter drink
and slip through your stories
easy laughter escaping our lips.
Our friendship is too tested to be
strained – boundaries had already been pushed as far as you dared –
You’re brave in other ways and I
stare at tattoos slipping through
power suits, cellphones, and expensive cigars
on 1st Ave and smile crooked and kind
at coffee shop guy talking
about making money off used ripped jeans
(too bad I tossed mine).
But we’re talking Jim Carroll poety
and the power of a city where I am no longer
–no smoke pressed against coffee shop glass—
and your voice only comes sliding
at the detached speed of light—
but your image is burned on my retina.
I can still hear your voice
in the sound of coffee, poetry, and graveyards
–things we always shared
damn the distance –
and whenever our voices curl around the other
loose strands from before are woven
and our partings are left open-ended
on the off chance we see a reason
to pick up threads of thought
that slide through the air
against the glass of a coffee shop in 1st Ave
where you rattle on and I sit
–with you and the city captured
in a scent of what was.
Dark Perceptions 