The Trust of the Syncopated Sun

she has a taco problem
called last week.
I have a belly
called Bishop.
she is gorgeous
and I don't know why she likes me,
which makes me paranoid
as a runner in Coney Island.

I have the internet
and a Brooklyn past.
she has a great smile
turned laugh.

of the life I want,
book store blues
and gold teeth bones
stolen from wolves,
it doesn't matter what I say,
I am better off alone,
but the sun keeps reminding me
that tomorrows happen.

my ear has something in it:
comedy and her voice,
a constant pop
something like trains, rumbling.
I don't know what to believe anymore.