“Mmm-ah-nn… going to California?”
“No, sweetie. Nobody’s going to California.”
“Not even the muffins?”
I live these wakings of wheelbarrows and
Wonder but it’s been years since I wrote
poems of love without fear. I wandered
French Markets, un-streets, your abandoned
three-dollar theater, and comparison failed
until she got fitted for my frames. What
adoration adorns itself in traps? Finger
painted figures clutching hands before beliefless
church, but wait— only one clings. She’ll
buckle, the Angry Blade. Find her own
city. Swell sweet for someone else.
No, sweetie. Nobody’s going Uptown.