We sit on a bench in Stuyvesant Town,
stumbling into one another with words:
Perhaps I am submerged
in your heart like one of those
pennies in the fountain;
Perhaps that saxophone player does have
eardrums made of gold;
Perhaps you really would like to marry me;
Can’t remember why the finger flicks,
can’t pronounce the time tables on my tongue as the
clock hands march past.
The brass beat swings between us.
The sandman says he doesn’t see you much anymore
You say that we’re all slowly dying.
He asked me how you’ve been and
if you’re drinking your milk.
You say that nothing in this universe is becoming more alive.
I change the subject, quickly:
How’s the stock exchange?
How’s your mother’s hip?
How do you get your lips that shade of blue
and how do you
seeing the coffin
when you close your eyes?
Have you gotten the ant colony out of your head?
Mine’s still there.
The mist hits our legs.
Mid-September, nine months in and I
can’t recall how to tie my shoes anymore
when you’re not around.
The mornings I accidentally wake up
on your side of the bed,
I grasp at the mattress beneath me
looking for your cologne
in the threads of my sheets.
I pour a glass of your favorite scotch,
just for the scent,
and let it sit on my windowsill.