or taking the steps to live like one
tying your shoes with your own hands
or divvying up the proceeds into an
old jar of mayonnaise, I'd still love you
in something scalloped or banal
as butter in icing or an omelet.
I am winning so much lately
that it hurts my arms. I get the drift
and stumble down the six flights of stairs
to a new way of looking at Baltic Street.
There are men walking dogs
in the dark and people frothing
at the loud mouths with nothing
to say but saying it anyway and that's just great.
So human as to seem tasteless, gabbing
into my palm like I'm praying into a phone.
So high up in the trees, this memory
of grass and something else up there.
A hand reaching for yours isn't all that
so I'll use this wooden spoon to think of you.
What will you use to think of me?