2pm
She wears a full skirt, floral printed.
She's thin.
Her lipstick travels from her top lip to her right cheekbone,
which is prominent.
One might say that she is gaunt.
One might say that she is on drugs.
She works her jaw busily.
A boy I dated 9 years ago called me compulsive.
He barely knew me.
It was a second date.
Later he ran around his apartment looking for an object
to compare my dick to, i was told, reluctantly, by a friend.
She works her jaw compulsively.
I want to make eye contact.
I'm scared.
With her absent chatter she draws in a boring fat man in a blue polo.
Her hand lights on his shoulder like a lame butterfly or
a one winged bird. He leaves her but keeps looking back over his shoulder
considering maybe, her desperation coupled with his need for coupling.
Or maybe he's in love. truly.
I cross the street toward the space between them.
She's now turned, or rather twisted herself in the air
wrapping the whole corner around her
drawing it to her bruised, pale and youngish shoulders
like a shawl. too obvious. like a shrug. obviouser. like a coat.
no. the arms of a lover? she wraps the whole intersection around her.
I'm off balance, the street moving beneath me, towards her.
That boy, he would not sleep at my house
he lied and said he was a Calvin Klein model,
I gave him money because he had none, so that
he could take the subway to see me.
I was maybe a little too desperate.
She wears just one high heel, and one fur lined slipper.
It is 2pm on a Monday.
On the corner of 7th and Mission street.
I am in San Francisco.
A crumpled five clutched in my left hand
my cell phone in the other
shoulders forward
eyes forcibly down
i pass the vortex of her moment.
I go to the dollar store.
She's thin.
Her lipstick travels from her top lip to her right cheekbone,
which is prominent.
One might say that she is gaunt.
One might say that she is on drugs.
She works her jaw busily.
A boy I dated 9 years ago called me compulsive.
He barely knew me.
It was a second date.
Later he ran around his apartment looking for an object
to compare my dick to, i was told, reluctantly, by a friend.
She works her jaw compulsively.
I want to make eye contact.
I'm scared.
With her absent chatter she draws in a boring fat man in a blue polo.
Her hand lights on his shoulder like a lame butterfly or
a one winged bird. He leaves her but keeps looking back over his shoulder
considering maybe, her desperation coupled with his need for coupling.
Or maybe he's in love. truly.
I cross the street toward the space between them.
She's now turned, or rather twisted herself in the air
wrapping the whole corner around her
drawing it to her bruised, pale and youngish shoulders
like a shawl. too obvious. like a shrug. obviouser. like a coat.
no. the arms of a lover? she wraps the whole intersection around her.
I'm off balance, the street moving beneath me, towards her.
That boy, he would not sleep at my house
he lied and said he was a Calvin Klein model,
I gave him money because he had none, so that
he could take the subway to see me.
I was maybe a little too desperate.
She wears just one high heel, and one fur lined slipper.
It is 2pm on a Monday.
On the corner of 7th and Mission street.
I am in San Francisco.
A crumpled five clutched in my left hand
my cell phone in the other
shoulders forward
eyes forcibly down
i pass the vortex of her moment.
I go to the dollar store.
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