Sept. 15, 2015
If you have to fight for a man’s attention, you have already lost it.
And he is gone,
somewhere with less of a call.
He is among the skyscrapers and museums,
and someplace that smells like formaldehyde.
But not here;
slipped through my fingers and the grates in the sidewalk,
so I can stare at his absence
and blame myself.
He will not miss me,
because I am here,
in my hometown with fresh cut grass,
townhouses and oil.
Spite the sting,
I suppose it can’t be all so bad.