Poems, Or Rather, Drunkems

Our moments were brief and, for me here in New York, now nostalgic. I am New York. There were a few bites of french toast in the East Village. A tuna melt or two; but I now appreciate a big bowl of roughage nearly once a day. There was an awful lot of rain I saw from within your window panes. We smoked some joints, nothing uncommon to your terrain. I carried well, your well-known name. I'll not be able to write an essay to flag your heart's attention from LA. And you probably won't come back to New York quite the same. I miss rushed November. I miss brief, sentimental December. I miss your subtle, dimpled smile that I quietly thanked your parents for. I miss dispensable time-- "ah, now this is vacation.". And Pianos? Pianos will never be the same. Your offered arm to hook on to. Waiting for you in a diner as it rained; a black and white Christmas flick the week before. I miss your sweet, sweet self-- the wrinkles below and beside your eyes. Your accusatory state reiterating my uncertainty. I'm unsure, hell I'm still unsure, and young, in my defense. I miss the lack of sparks on a lacking New York ice skating rink. I miss the feathers of your quilt. I'm allergic to feathers, you should know; I want you back, ah, The Jackson Five.