the last time we spoke, you
demanded
why I had not called you back
(and in doing so, answered
your own question)
perhaps you simply feared
losing a kindred soul
in a city that devours
but I, who had packed my Gypsy wagon
countless times, and begun
anew, chafed
at your perceived possessiveness
I think of you still
a fleshwarm statue of bronze, inkstrokes
and expensive cologne, in a stranger land
than all the golden groves of Jordan
could have dreamed
in their sunswept reverie
and I, an un-American
in the most American of cities
sharing olives
between our gloved hands
Photo Credit: CarbonNYC [in SF!] Flickr via Compfight cc
