I was sitting in front of a fruit store in Camden before going to the zoo. I forgot to have lunch so I got strawberries. A boy said my poetry feels like strawberries and fog and new morning. I cannot think of a compliment I’d like more.
it’s noon somewhere, it’s noon in your head, in the
hair tucked, through your ear,
rolled up in bed,
dyed but never dead, soaking up
Camden’s daily dread, there’s a black chair, under where
you’re sitting, messy red nails posing, dancing in your organic
manna, staring, sitting, you’ll stop
outside the window, sipping your strawberry,
watching the world go by, wanting it all to
stop, but until dusk it will slip by on canvas, and then it will
go flimsy, toes tripping over
in a run and then it will pant and then it will stroll
on, on for little minutes and hours, as your eyes grow
bigger, redder, in lust, for the next smoke, the sun’s arising
swallowing the world’s liquid mess like the middle of an egg,
hushed, in lully bye,
sleeping cradle, until it saults into swing again, this is all, another
foggy strawberry morning
