Carlton Avenue, Winter
At home I check social media
to see if I’ve gotten any likes.
I need to know if I exist
or not.
All the lights in the building across the street are on
but the rooms are empty.
I was thinking that I’m invisible and I could die
without ever being loved.
There’s a plastic bag caught in the tree outside my window.
It looks like a still from an indie film
meant to provide a contemplative pause.
The film would be about a girl who lives in a mobile home park,
rides a bus to the mall and receives a tip from a stranger.
The bag seems purposefully placed,
but it's not. It’d be a film based on my life
if I had one. The brownstones in this part of town
are adjoined wall to wall. I’d like to sliver them apart with a butter knife
and add a path in-between to the gardens in the back.
The lack of access to the gardens is a crime.
Not a real crime but a crime filled with yearning and goodness
and setting butterflies free. I long to sit in a yard with a wrought iron furniture set
and a view of the sky.
People are in the shared kitchen in my air b and b.
They look like professionals. I can see them through the glass panes in the door.
The house I live in is beautiful and clean.
I’m afraid the owners will ask me to leave.
I don't belong here though I seem to occupy a room.
The professionals drink craft beer.
I see it in the recycling bin in the kitchen.
The women wear cashmere sweaters
and the men wear khakis and wind breakers.
They look shiny and breakable.
I hear their blow dryers in the morning.
They grab energy bars for breakfast and appear comfortable in their bodies
as if they own them.
I can stretch my arms out and touch both sides of my room at once.
Each room is furnished with early American furniture.
I can't imagine having sex here.
As if touching another person would break colonial law.
I click on my own webpage to increase traffic.
I stop eventually and go on to the next thing.
At home I check social media
to see if I’ve gotten any likes.
I need to know if I exist
or not.
All the lights in the building across the street are on
but the rooms are empty.
I was thinking that I’m invisible and I could die
without ever being loved.
There’s a plastic bag caught in the tree outside my window.
It looks like a still from an indie film
meant to provide a contemplative pause.
The film would be about a girl who lives in a mobile home park,
rides a bus to the mall and receives a tip from a stranger.
The bag seems purposefully placed,
but it's not. It’d be a film based on my life
if I had one. The brownstones in this part of town
are adjoined wall to wall. I’d like to sliver them apart with a butter knife
and add a path in-between to the gardens in the back.
The lack of access to the gardens is a crime.
Not a real crime but a crime filled with yearning and goodness
and setting butterflies free. I long to sit in a yard with a wrought iron furniture set
and a view of the sky.
People are in the shared kitchen in my air b and b.
They look like professionals. I can see them through the glass panes in the door.
The house I live in is beautiful and clean.
I’m afraid the owners will ask me to leave.
I don't belong here though I seem to occupy a room.
The professionals drink craft beer.
I see it in the recycling bin in the kitchen.
The women wear cashmere sweaters
and the men wear khakis and wind breakers.
They look shiny and breakable.
I hear their blow dryers in the morning.
They grab energy bars for breakfast and appear comfortable in their bodies
as if they own them.
I can stretch my arms out and touch both sides of my room at once.
Each room is furnished with early American furniture.
I can't imagine having sex here.
As if touching another person would break colonial law.
I click on my own webpage to increase traffic.
I stop eventually and go on to the next thing.