In the phone booth on 47th Street ,
the city steeped in bottle green/neon,
too weak to seek out what’s appropriate,
these legs, waterfalls, in her living memory,
in the paper—another war to wet our beaks;
Jesus, pick the phone, need to talk ASAP;
I see it all on the looks on each passing face,
secretly, eyes dreaming poetry out of the light,
living the life they got—right or wrong, perfect/not;
I’ve never heard singing so dark in a place,
horns blaring, air rushing by, cars splashing water,
Jesus, you there? maybe you can come—quick!
There is something to say for not saying anything,
right or wrong; solitary/strong; peace or fighting?
I’ll be who I am; I don’t know about you;
the wind in my veins getting colder every minute,
a million faces to see when I only need one:
hello? is anyone there? hello? hello? hello?
