Suave Blanco

Leaping into your blue
holding on to nothing
so my thumbs don't have to work
I can sit here in the middle of the room
on a brown rug next to the highway
I'll never be mayor of anything
the city will erupt with letters
strewn from hideous billboards
language will be set free from the seclusion
of filthy lucre
I pay my rent but there is no
"you" in the poem
I will assemble a layer of news
that will filter through all my thoughts
of "you" if there was a "you" in this poem
this would make more sense
I'll sit on a stack of books
that I read once on the other side of town
I'll wear boat shoes from another decade
like the cool kids are doing in France
or so they say
this is starting to end rapidly
the feeling I get pretending to fill "you" in
is better than this feeling I'm leaving behind.