Playing tejo—
Colombia's national sport,
Colombia's national sport,
which involves steel projectiles,
gunpowder and lots and lots of beer—
while she puts on a playlist
for her dog.
This summer,
I am determined
to only wear shorts,
and shut the fuck up.
I am back in New York
with the SoFlo blues;
She got a new tattoo
of an old tattoo.
A rorschach test
of what's left,
we explode with laughter,
her espanol curses give me chills.
She lives in Queens,
near Roosevelt Avenue in Jackson Heights,
the spirit of her mother's generation
never left the block.
We talk of journalism being dead,
listen to Australian indie music,
she says life is just a beast's dream
and I tend to agree.
Playing love—
a poet's international sport,
a poet's international sport,
which involves stairwell sex,
broken hearts and inevitability—
while she puts on a put of tea
for her and me.