A LETTER TO DEANDREA: FLOWERS IN YOUR POCKET
1. the prelude.
sitting here thinking about wind, which isnít
all that great; it gets stuck in my teeth, and i'd
call it invisible corn if i didn't like
corn so much.
iím finding it difficult to
define you after so long. i see you standing,
maybe at a bus stop (no that would be
maybe standing outside some restaurant holding
a cigarette like a tulip, outside because
you hate the smoking section. music plays
through the small speakers littered
around the front entrance, dry mandolins
emitting a sound thatís old but endearing, flutes
rising higher towards the end. minutes later
the song has been replaced
with another and youíre sitting on the curb putting
your fire out in the gutter, pulling out
another cigarette, so many
flowers in your pocket)
and your mornings are coney island mornings
reading the newspaper headings like memories,
drinking orange juice without a
straw. waitress comes and you order an omelet
when what you really want is
the world, sunny side up.
and you walk out without giving a tip & treat
buses like taxis, you wish you
were in chicago or any city
that wonít write apologies to you
on wet paper towel. and you get off at the
bookstore and read
Hurston by a window, read how their eyes were
watching God and wonder if God watched
them back with the same uncertainty. you
are stuck in the corner sifting through
the possibilities of the day ahead.
and i am stuck thinking about wind.
Date of Birth:
September 25, 1984
Sometimes City, etc.
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