I had forgotten what it was like
to wake up excited with a dance in my step.
Later, I sit at laptop,
eating old strawberries,
picking up the slices
with an individual toothpick
and popping the turn morsels
into my mouth.
The toothpick has turned red,
and Devendra sings sad songs,
because that's what I choose
this morning after espresso dancing,
and a documentary breakfast.
Don't forget, I sing to myself, aloud,
that whatever is to come
after these strawberries
hasn't come yet.
I begin to type,
shaking the dust off,
from internet rust
and stupid lust.
What comes out
is hide-n-seek dreams and memories,
giving a what's-real appeal
to an otherwise doldrum den,
where a man like me
can live and simply eat old strawberries
without being bothered in the old morning.
I remember walking away
and seeing that hawk in Washington Square Park,
how it gave me hope
then
to find hope in old strawberries
now.
hope for nothing
but what's next.