Early in my Plight

In my early plight I felt my indecision to be a saddle
so when the stitching grew larger than the leather
it was holding together my arm encased
in green jelly. I was riding triumphantly until I
remembered it was early in my plight.
I still had a ways to go before moving
into the delicate clime of humid oxfords
and orchid lust. My heart beat maximally.
Now I see your pink breasts on the stitching
of a saddle-- I even see them when I eat ice meat.
Standing in the rain, wet streets, a blue umbrella--
it all felt so novel, like a movie with faces
blaring the need for some past infringement,
rising up to smack me. Still the hour passes
even as the gate puller pulls the gate down
and says excuse me in such a polite and gentle
manner that it feels pleasurable moving out of his way.
Seeking nothing but a last glance
while turning around again to say good luck.
Only an arm, the turn of the coat, your hair
a faint flash in the slap happy streets
of daring Brooklyn, Hedda Gabler, Burritos,
my life now moving home.