It smells like
pizza
and
***
and I am still a
pizza-less
******.

I tried to
write
a poem about you
but instead
I scribbled a
big, orange-ink blob
and I figured
that made
just as much sense.

Get your favorite pen.
     Do not seek inspiration.
           Let it come to you.

Didn’t tell you
my boyfriend’s
in prison did I?
Julie said

As you walked
through Leicester Square
having met her
off the bus

from the hospital
where she had to stay
for her drug habit
(her parents

being doctors
had her locked away
as best they could)
no you didn’t

you replied
taking note
of her tightly tied
ponytail

her eyes unfocused
the summery dress
long and colourful
got caught with drugs on him

in a raid
she said
o I see
you said

do you get to see him?
you asked
hoping not
wishing the ******

to be locked up good
no
she said
he’s too far away

for me to get to
in the period
I have free
from the hospital

and besides
he’s not really
my boyfriend
more an acquaintance

she sat in a seat
near a cinema
and stared
at passersby

you sat beside her
remembering the times
your old man
had brought you here

as a kid to see the nightlife
or go to the cinema
for some film
he had to see

or some famous actor
or actress he said
he thought
might be there

I’ve brought you
some cigarettes
you said
o you are a dear

she said
and kissed your cheek
and took the packet
and opened it up

there and then
and took one out
and lit it
with a plastic light

from her pocket
did you want one?
she asked
no you have them

you said
and so she sat
and smoked
and in between puffs

and exhalations
she spoke of her parents
and the hospital
and the staff there

and how she still remembered
that time she took you
in that small room
off the hospital ward

and did things
as she put it
and laughed
and the smoke

went up
and the people
went by
and you sat

watching her
taking in her hands
and fingers
the cigarette

between them
the eyes still dull
and bluish
or greenish

depending how
the sunlight caught them
and your cheek
still wet where her lips

had been
and the blue of sky
and the nearby park
with flowers

and grass flushed
with green.

I AM A ******* ADULT.

At the very least, the status is implied
by the Jenga-tower
of (mostly unopened) envelopes
on top my refrigerator
(which is full of ingredients now,
occasionally,
instead of scraps or dead-end, quick-fix options)

My wine comes in bottles, now;
$6 bottles, on average, but still.
(though I maintain my
unconditional support of the
undeniable
economical benefits and efficiency offered
by pumping it into/out of a box)


Why is the measure of maturity exhaustion?


Two years ago, I bought a file cabinet,
for no other reason
than it seemed like the
'adult'
thing to do at the time.
Inside lies reams of papers
instinct tells me to save.
Some with impressive
time-sensitive, stamped, sealed, italicized importance.
Times New Roman.
PAY ATTENTION.

My plates don't match,
and technically until less than four months ago
I only had one bowl,
but i have a decent can opener and
measuring cups of various degrees.
-No ladle. -
(But how often does one really need a ******* ladle?)


Why is the measure of maturity exhaustion?


A queen-sized mattress
minimizes the volume of my
minimally-spaced apartment.
A point of pride last year
after the 24 it took to shake the twin-sized option.
Sheets with a thread count
low enough for my cat to count to
but I could get some throw pillows,
or a dust ruffle. (do people still have dust ruffles?!)

I am a ******* adult.
What a shock
to discover
from where I sleep on this red denim couch.
(Did I forget to mention, that
I only sleep in my bed like once a month?)
But I can see the file cabinet from here.
Doesn't that count for something?

**Why is the measure of maturity exhaustion?