i pass a teaspoon to the man
who never smiles, he might
be your brother.

i drift into the rooms which have
witnessed the entire length of this
catastrophe. blown in by a golden
forgetfulness, i did not expect
to see you there. & so i stand
in your field of vision
taunting you in
my kerouac hat,
my motorcycle boots,
& hair that has grown
half a foot
since last you
rained your gaze
on me.

between all the boys who busy themselves
& the accented men who linger for so long;
you are the only man in the room.

these hands don't have a clue
on how to shake you off, to clue
you in. & you flee within the minute.

i am cruel. i am cold.
still, i am so sorry.