10/30/08 our indian summer on hold- etta james

(at 100 hoxey street we listened sometimes to pink martini's, hang on little tomato.
today, i am a little tomato.
small, ripe, red, with urgent curiosity.)

i want to ask you things.
i want to know about cambridge days.
i want to taste chips in newspaper and lick lips like a black cab peeling out on slick, newly rained, ass-fault.

i want a beggar's hand of a heart, offering need and requests freely.
wrapped in a top wool layer, i might slowly slide down the side of a restaurant serving extra bites to paying folk,
recounting all of the ways i was asked to leave.

and it's raining now.
our indian summer on hold.

so,
let's say i spend a couple days in the virgin islands
wondering by the water why i was wanted there.
then,
for the sake of argument,
let's say i bought two tickets to iceland.
either way, i'd still be sketching your face from memory.
the truth is,
despite my own fondness for birds,
i'd send the two of them away,
or perhaps her alone,
twice,
to uncover it's unending pastures.
on the beach i'd be a loving blur,
happily in ones company,
but a blur nonetheless.

against this wall, nearer the concrete,
i can at least count on the still reflection
of my waiting figure,
quiet,
in the window,
remembering.
near the water,
i'd be rippling too,
and might forget my form altogether.

journal