Every single time I think of you
it is never directly of you.

It always is the red potatoes
sprinkled with rosemary.

It is lit cigarettes on fire escapes.

it is record players,
and scrabble matches.

It is the look on the cab driver's face
as I forced you in his cab
when you got too drunk
on the fourth of july.

It is the ride back home,
over the Brooklyn Bridge.

It is Fireworks exploding
into chandeliers of light,
in the distance,
as you're passed out,
and I'm crying
because I miss my mother.

you tread the city so quietly.
tip toe delicate around me.
don’t send a word, don’t wave a flag.
and I wait to see you on trains
and I avoid brooklyn like the plague.
(if you wrote me I would drown.)
the boy who loves me would wilt,
knowing I hear your voice still.
although soft, although dreamt,
like notes that rise real slow
to the surface
from an underwater piano.

I'm still waiting for the song the end.