Last night,
standing on the corner of Broadway and Main,
repeating in my head,
‘Let us go then, you and I’
imagining the evening spread across the sky
like a patient etherized on a table,
I felt a familiar feeling.
The dull sound of
burning-out neon signs
in their death rattle:
a soundtrack.
The low-lit streets
where kids who don’t want to go home,
and men who don’t have a home,
move like threatening shadows: the scene.
You asked me what was on my mind.
I, too consumed with phrases,
and a half-written poem in my head,
couldn’t seem to bring any union
between my mind and my mouth.
Did I ever mention that I like humid summer nights?
Have I mentioned that I reflect upon
the puddles that gather in broken pavement
and catch light reflections?
Have I not mentioned the romantic feeling
that consumes me when I, alone, talk to my
best friends – long dead whom never knew my name?
A familiar feeling of former dark nights.
I worry I’m settling back into the
spines of used books,
a strangers scribbled insight-
my true confidant.
The worry had never consumed me before,
and so I turn to you, and stutter out whatever phrase
is overcoming me.
We turn back,
get into the car,
and drive home to watch a stupid movie.
And somehow it seemed the most profound
movement of art.
