chewing the end of a pen.
in the pouring rain.
on 57th and 9th.
near Barcelona Bar.
humming and waiting.
she probably won't show.
and that's okay.
I don't feel like talking.
I am a continued editor of myself,
waxing both righteous and pugnacious,
trying to be on time,
but open to risks that make me late for life.
I wait for her,
but I wait for myself
and I think I am waiting
for much more.