peeling

We walked along the stream

of counterfeiters and vendors.

Canal Street on a Thursday morning.

I held our bubble teas,

one in each hand,

while you worked on peeling

a half-drunk coconut.

Laughing, I followed

as you pointed at each guy

whose clothes I would look better in.

I laughed because you were so serious,

coconut bits covered and Canal Street scented,

minutes away from a job interview in SoHo.

I had to clean you up before you walked in.

You kissed me goodbye.

You were wearing my hoodie.

Five hours later,

you gave it back,

coconut bits-less and you-scented.

I can count the deeds and feats

I did and laid like roses shaped napkins of

surrender before your feet.

Like fragile bubbles floating

from toy guns wielded by foreigners along the canal.

Against your skin they burst violent

but so small they go unnoticed.

My deeds and feats,

they went unnoticed.

I can count the seconds in each

of the 5 hours.   The 5 hours we were apart.

When I didn’t know

you changed your mind.

I can count the months

I left the hoodie in my car.

Coconut bits-less and you-scented.

I washed it recently. 

It hangs deep in my closet.

I walk along Canal

past bargaining counterfeiters,

past foreigners wielding plastic guns.

The past as distant as the months

and 5 hours since.

The old stream still runs beneath the street.

And the air carries your scent.

photo:http://farm5.staticflickr.com/4105/4952864959_55b78dff5d_o.jpg

sidewalks

We were runners.

North on 6^th.  West on 20^th.

Up and down the West Side Highway.

Across 14^th, we raced to the bad Goodburger.

But now it’s cold.  Inside, I run in circles.

I pretend that you ran away,

that I could never keep up.

But I was always faster, could run longer.

I breathed you in with the Fall.

I needed no music, just your footsteps

following and surrounding stereo of the close open air.

You were the beat keeping my pace.

You paced my heartbeat.  It felt right.

I could have kept running.

But you walked away from me.

We were married.

By you, symbolically.

Simply you called me husband.

Hot and sweaty after racing,

I offered to carry your hoodie.

You offered me your hand instead.

I miss my “wife”.

Honeydew, do you miss me too?

You walked away. 

Now this is a city of ruins.

All the places we were,

our Union, our Herald.

Our views:

your River Court across the Hudson,

my Brooklyn Heights across the East.

And all the places I go, the portmanteaus

spell out your name.

You were my South of Houston;

Broadway busy, your fashion mind.

You were my Triangle Below Canal;

artful youth, urban and wild.

Now you’re harder to get to

than Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass.

And all the songs I love—

you hijacked and I surrendered.

Each mile I run,

I hear you in my stride.

Sidewalks dance slow to my sad beating.

You were my music soul mate.

Now you’re my half-empty bed.

You were my running partner.

Now you’re my shortness of breath—

photo1:http://farm1.static.flickr.com/22/37192974_431a9d3331_o.jpg

photo2:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3630/3513243476_0f2b4390c6_o.jpg