was sitting by
himself that
night in the
smoking garden
above the Blue Note.

A lanky forearm
outstretched and
upturned
on the picnic table, I
recognized the dark
outline in ink beneath
his skin.

He held his arm like that
as bait
for pretty young things
who loved Radiohead.

I’m back in America now
and came across
his blog
last night.

Poems about girls.

Where’s the poem about me?

Heart-racing, impulse-clicking
NEXT POST
NEXT POST
NEXT POST
NEXT POST