Refresh. Refresh. Refresh.
I’d give you another day dizzy
in its bracket for the reluctant circumference
of a sad sad satellite’s antiquated orbital stoppage.
You can’t jump with a lead foot, can’t
anthropomorphize insect anticipation, can’t
pixelate postcard nostalgia, can’t
trace a boy’s tiny hand and call him
king of anything that crosses your path, your past,
your iconographic reluctance to let go the toehold
of ordinary New York lasting so long at night, so
lusty in traffic & another orphan absently
kicking the underside of an orange plastic chair.
Poems shouldn’t make you wait for them to finish.
Like love, they should finish making you wait.