I am in the crowd,
listening to Spotify
and ignoring
everyone's ribs.
Who the hell
will I fool this evening
in a flick of the bruising night?
I remember I didn't make my bed.
I remember I don't have a bed.
A minute is a mirror
and a kiss is a corner
while a ghost is nothing.
grab your trumpet,
meet me in the hallway,
remember me,
because I wrote the last poem for you
87 years ago.
can't kill me
yet.