Laying Out My Winter Clothes

[This poem was written some time 2007. I've been poking about the homestead as my parents are trying to sell it, finding the occasional diamond. My head's a little too full of nostalgia and existentialist post-grad limbo to write anything of my own at the moment I'm afraid... at each second I arrest my thought and send it another direction. At any rate, I remember precisely where I was at the time I wrote the following untitled: at a Starbucks on the Upper West Side. It was windy that day. I had just a small coffee, because that's what I usually ordered. Exceptionally googoo over Joyce. This is obvious.]

White car inhaling his

tires. Misty blue car street.

Gray cages. Gray bricks.

Rose wine and a neon

sign. Window boxes

hold salmon-pink wild

grass and bold carnations

with blinds the color of

antique lover letters. A

woman in a blue

cotton dress that is just

long enough to

accentuate her every

line. A man passes

and looks back. A siren.

Parking meters. Small hands

being held. Small teeth

smiling at the street.

French. Italian. Espresso.

More hands and the

color blue. The bus.

Sad faces line the window.

The company is very

gloomy. Yelp! Yelp! Two

dogs. Curly red hair,

brakes, a sun dress.

Clouds. The sky is just

cloud. “Light caramel.”

Rusty fire escapes and

air conditioners jutting

out from the building

like ugly, obtrusive

radios. Boxes. Wind.

Trees. So green, they

don’t belong. A dove.

Black trash bags. A

door closes. Faded red

bricks. Fades grey and

red bricks next to that

brilliant, brilliant

green. Leaves carved in

fake balconies. Blue

balloon. Glasses. A smiling

dog. UPS. Not a brown

truck? Taxis, taxis, someone

forgot their hat. Goosebumps.

Bouncing black hair,

smooth, like an advertisement.

A woven basket and

blue. Wide blue eyes.

A red rainbow in the

window across the

gray road. Small black

hat. What are those

called? Intent. Words.

Up and down in neat

rows. Honk. Country

music? Wet, brown

looks. Sun glasses, but

still… clouds. Wind.

Not as intense as before.

A tissue. June? Leather

and high-heeled shoes.

Polka dots and a

small, pink thumb.

Curved mouth. Iced tea.

“Gay City.” Blond Red.

The Boxer “Bleeding

me… going home

When I By the

light, by the li-li-li

li-li-light. By the light…”

Sweats. Gazing, gazing.

Talking softly. Rainbow

of strips! The sun – a

blue sun – on olive

skin. Smiling ink. Columbus

Ave. Flashing hand. Go! Go!

“By the light.” Plastic.

Crumpling. Paperback

book in stride going

back and forth, back

and forth down 18th

street.

“Thank you.”

“Enjoy.”