You should've heard me two nights ago—
all silken-eyed, swaying to the smoke of an inner city,
forgetful of the light and its occupants breathing
stifled coffees into their stomachs.
I burnt edges of verbs into your palm. You,
you rewarded me with staccato text messages on your phone,
disbelieving that I would come at 1.41 a.m., down Newton Road,
and through Dominion's endless traffic lights.
You said "Poetry belongs in people's hearts. It belongs
where the Whitmans and Ginsbergs would feel at home, wired on
too many afternoons fussing over this word and that, this construct
of perception meant to titillate and entrance." And I would agree.
I traced saffron into my voice that night, hid behind saxophones
blaring from the speakers of this speakeasy underground collection
of Bohemian twenty-somethings: some looking for glory, some
a medley of existential and anarchist life.
What life, you say, here, broken, weighed down by tribulations,
by the codes of society telling you you must learn to conform, learn
to be another sheeple munching on third-rate, third-world grass?
We never wanted any of this; we still look to a hard but brave new world.
You should've been here with me two nights ago—
forgetful of the sound of too many people fucking and swearing,
screaming and falling off of rooftops, unimpressed with the circular weave,
the Circadian rhythms of frustration and woe.
You should've come. You should've come.
You should've written a poem with me.