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Image for post

Impressed? Say it might be so.

And you were the only indefatigable, delicate miracle

leaning against a telephone booth on Broadway

that last curious night

when it was curtains for button-crazed seamstresses

holed-up in the kept holiness of cold-water flats.

Spiffed,

as they used to say,

caught warm-footed and a real looker too,

back before we even knew each other’s last names.

Business cards and uncanny hairdos be damned.

Selfish and unrealistic’s

probably not the best combination

in a pinch’s instinctual punch.

Incomparable too,

without even a strut or a slice of sole

to forget the roomy luxury of a Sunday by.

Beside somebody else besides yourself,

you know,

the trial and error of getting by.

Jaw-dropping, this

inclination

that bows in late, hatless,

hefts a teetering load of begged mercy,

and, certain as a eulogy’s passing,

plays nice with the strings.

And so, a phlebotomist’s pursuit of veiny insurrection

carries all the dope-sick girls on high beams

to other carriers of esteem —

torpedo that request,

please. Pleased, you see,

to keep this nose cleaner than the surroundings

until we dive like knuckled sieves

wrenched through the business section,

burnt in casual grates,

parsed to interchangeable clippings,

and bought over and over until nothing

sells.

Veto my crashed passion

(which lasts about as long as a ripe avocado would)

hiding under coffee tables

through the shyest vindications

of just who’d do the talking to and/or for.

Justified with the erratic purpose of a muted phone call —

enough to stun any onlooker from her window seat — we

can garble to great heights through the jammed frequencies

that hold us for keeps in the stalled traffic of conceptual

(or perpetual, perhaps)

drafts: what you and I,

in the shelled fragments of our days,

never quite seem

to get around to being.

Just later and later

it gets,

before the moon softly haggles its duct-taped way

earlier and earlier

into and out of

the lowest ups

down to and in

the passing time of what I

for now

get the short and unbelievable chance

to call my life.

The only writer who matters

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