you feel spurned
by the ocean, by the spume
of waves crashing down
all sea-glass-colored, and
the dangling hands
of seaweed in the pale green
light of the oncoming
breaker hanging open
with no one
to grasp them.
you feel rejected
by the moon and
by the stars, alone
out there
on the beach.

well, the sea
cares nothing for your
feelings. the moon
is doing just fine without you,
and has never felt
more fulfilled. the stars,
meanwhile, have yet
to even notice
your absence.

your message
in a bottle will never
wash up to shore.
it lies on the bottom
of the ocean, nibbled
by curious, stupid fish,
manhandled by octopi.
the waves have heard it all
before, and the
sharp-toothed sharks
would love to tear you
to ribbons if they could.

if you want an answer,
try telling the wind,
and see
who’s listening.

not. tonight

I didn’t expect
to go home alone
tonight, that’s all.
it’s fine, I don’t mind,
it’s all good. I’m waiting
for the train, drunk
and wearing my
jukebox dress. I
have to pee. I
just missed
the train. I left
my book at home
because I didn’t expect
to go home alone

I’m wondering
if I should make quesadillas
when I get home.
so much time
to myself that I
didn’t expect to have.
is this train ever
going to get here?
have to do something
to distract myself.

I check my transit app
and it now says 15 minutes
before the next train comes.
fuck this shit. I get out
and go to the Waverly Diner
to use their restroom.

mission accomplished,
I re-enter the train
on the wrong side. I see
the uptown train
on the other side
and yell “Fuck you!”
at it before I cross over
and manage to make it
by some miracle.

goddamn it, I’m
so hungry. I think
I have one scallion
left. some jack cheese.
definitely half
an avocado. some
cilantro. sushi rice
with butter. quesadillas
it is, then. the rest of
that episode of Masters
of Sex that I watched
10 minutes of
before I left the house.

this poem is boring
and prosaic, much like
my life right now.
I just didn’t expect
to be left to my own
devices. I didn’t expect
to go home alone

that bird

that bird, the lone little guy
who came to visit me
in my aerie, and
who ate some of my crumbs?
I thought he might
have been a grackle – a
delicious word for a
delicious-looking bird,
at least to my salivating cats – but
further investigation
(i.e. Googling)
tells me he was not.
he was merely
a common blackbird. they’re
not very big – I can see
how it could take
four and twenty of them
to make a decent pie.

still, he was very cute
and brave, and it’s not
his fault he doesn’t have
a better name.