They all move to New York,
unaware that New York won’t compare
to the drunken two-stepping
your young hearts did
along the sweltering
midsummer night streets
of northeast Texas
Darling, may I have this dance?
“No, thank you.” the reply,
in spite of a lifetime of oncoming dreams
about how much like home it felt
to place her head against your chest
…
This bullshit has never fooled me
You may as well be Shakespeare 2.0;
writing tragedies, when the world
is already too full of them
Juliet died, but you are alive
And that fact will not age like wine
Love, or lose, and become
another victim of NYC’s distraction
You could be kissing me in Times Square
Alas, that dance doesn’t do more
than cross your forgotten heart
—gray laces which haven’t
touched your flesh since we
parted ways
And so life goes; wave upon wave
of sweaty, heated dusk
But no love to make it memorable
No comments:
Post a Comment