Follows The Sun

i could write a poem
but honestly the only thing i want to talk about
is how stupid the subway trains
with the little separate bucket seats are
the yellow and orange on the 1 line
i fucking hate it
it’s not efficient
it doesn’t reflect the glorious variety of new yorkers’ bodies
it sucks
i have had to sit on the ridge between seats
to accommodate larger humans
or humans who insist on taking up space
for their genitals to breath, i suppose
it’s not pleasant

anyway
that’s all i can think about today
how bloody calm i feel
when i see the smooth blue benches
where riders can figure out how best to share

who thought up that other way?
nonsense, that’s all

the people
who ask the waitress
all the questions about the menu
and seem to think it is possible to get
two bowls of soup and two empanadas
for less than ten bucks in this part of the city

spoke to somebody this morning
before they came here
and the waitress spoke to somebody
or maybe she didn’t

this man is a vegan
that girl has a cello
this woman is drinking red wine
at ten in the morning
while she writes her third screenplay

the waitress does a little shimmy
to the motown that is playing
like it’s always playing
she doesn’t always smile like this
but she does today

When you leave a place in mid-march
you can’t expect that it
will be the same place on return –
in how it feels; or how its lit.

There was a blizzard when we left,
now trees drip in the mists
and waning piles of dirty snow
as scuttled sailboats list.

I think the crocuses have got
a fighting chance this time;
their February siblings, froze,
collapse back into grime.

No seasons pass me without some
slight worry in these days
but weather is not watching me
nor notices my gaze.

how crisp in contrast
the black branches and
blue sky above red brick
white windows grey slate
shingles that shine in
the bright slanting sun

I feel like I have
been punched in the arm because
I have been. But, damn

you should see the guy
who isn’t me, the other
guy. He was busted!

Flowers grew out of
his ears and between his toes
and fingers. I mean,

if you think spring did
a number on me, all I’m
saying is, look at

that guy, grass growing
all over his shoulders – gosh!
I wish I was him.

One thing I am learning
is that loving somebody
and knowing them
isn’t the same

What I know about my husband includes:
the way he feels anxiety mostly
once the cause of it has passed,
how he sings nonsense songs
to gain control over an unruly mind —

also how he looks at me,
and a little about how
he learned to trust me,
and trust us.

What I don’t know includes:
what he is thinking when he sings
and how he says hello to people
when I’m not by his side,
what he is like when people
who are not me first meet him.
Is he an easy colleague? a frustrating one?
What I don’t know is not limited
to this
or at all.

I love him.
And I getting know him (with me) pretty well,
but I do not know him with the world.
I could not explain him accurately:
what I don’t know encompasses all the space inside
and outside of him.

A day spent all in
anticipation of snow.
Will it really come?

***

Yes. And then came rain.
Snow drips slowly away from
branches, car hoods, roofs.

I was going to write
about how it’s not just more light
it’s different light

it’s not just 5:30 light at 6:30
it’s slanting lingering orange light
that reaches places it never did
last week

I was going to write that
but I didn’t

And this is not the thing
I was going to write

When I wake tomorrow
it will feel an hour earlier
than it will be, I think
and on Tuesday
when there is to be a blizzard
it will be well lit
into the evening

what the fuck is the deal
with dust
why is the world like this?

if you leave an object
in a room
it will, eventually
become filthy

god damn

as if cleaning up after
ourselves wasn’t hard enough
we have to clean up
after air