she was wearing yellow socks
that stand out above
her low top Doc Martens,
walking around the Poetry Festival
like she owns the island.
not who I wanted to see,
but still catching my eye
from my bloody booth,
which I inhabit with a bunch
of loud, shirtless poetry gangsters.
I saw her across the field
with her autumn looks
in simmering summer such
maybe but probably not,
and Yani called me out with my gaze.
I loved Yani too,
the brown Swiss sweetheart,
who understood me immediately
and traded poems
over shots of whiskey.
my phone is greasy from my face and dying,
while these weapons of women
want nothing to do with a poet like me
and I have no time to take a picture
or make the right decision.