a light rain had started to fall,
so I hid under the eave, a drop hitting me
in the eye, reminding me I am alive.
No media mail (books) for her
when I could just go to the city
and leave it in the vestibule of her building,
but I'd never and nothing has inspired me to.
I used to write with much more specificity,
and now I just pen poems of generalities;
fucked for big dipper themes like love and loss,
as if I am the only loser to feel these things.
So now I take a break, put on a suit,
and go to a Broadway show in the righteous rain,
folding my hands in my hands on the Rumbler,
remembering what it was like to be desirous.
I prefer love that at least tried to love me,
and so with an unmatched sense of adventure,
I catch a Sondheim show out of respect for his passing,
plus his songs are fun to sing along.
Moving on is all about not stopping moving,
just keep going...to shows, whatever,
just go go go, and make it great,
whether it's the post office or the box office.