Sadly, nobody buys poetry books
anymore: they all stand on the shelf, unopened.
Here, listening to bad bossa nova covers,
I wait for you. You say you’re putting on makeup,
brushing your long, black, curly hair.
This is a bookstore. See the twentysomethings
browsing through vampires, the hipsters,
pretending to dig Foucault. I’m tired of reading
of ballers’ weddings. Please come.
Maybe I can read you a poem. Ask you
to marry me for the tenth time. Maybe this time,
the speech will turn out right. Who knows?
Maybe I can even write you that poem, the one
you’ve always hoped someone would write for you.
This is a food court. See the rabble milling about.
No need for makeup or wi-fi. Just a straw.
A spork. A clean false-marble table.
Don’t forget your ring, just in case I kneel
and decide that the loneliness is killing me.
My hands are tired, too, from not touching you.
Please be here soon.
for Jana
