could've been anything:
a sober night in the symphony grass,
hard work and a song,
the thought of leaving everything behind,
but that quarter-after eight morning
was filled with nothing excitement.
maybe it was inspiration,
maybe it was happiness,
but it was something
that rarely shows its beautiful riot,
a constellation revealing itself
with aftermath, and ten stars later.
even the rumbler ride was nice,
and it reminded me
of that one mighty night
in mistreated Montreal,
where it came and went,
like a desperate shark in a calm sea.
it will be in this rare moment
that I wish to live forever,
like me feet walk with rhythm
and I smile for no reason,
as if just being
was briefly enough.
and then it's gone,
leaving me in a Duane Reade parking lot,
like a hitchhiker in its wake,
settling for the deodorant aisle,
buying nothing but stinky searching
for it again.