down fulton street, took a right
on 88th and bought cheap coffee
for a dollar, for my money would
truly be spent in conversations in the park
betting the old fucks against
games with rules and odds
I didn’t care to look up.
girls and women
would walk past me
wearing autumn colored clothes
all equally looking like
librarians, poets, or
avant garde fashion designers.
one even smiled back at me
worthy of an entry in my journal.
I would never hurt her,
I’d cook her dinner and take
her out to sunsets on cliffs where
I’d write up cheesy yet genuine lines
Of romance while we bask in the
Twilight and each other’s grins.
I should have said hello
Or asked about the weather
be normal, approachable and sincere.
the old guys always boast half
forgotten tales of chess games back
in the days when the world was different
and just like it is now.
these men are almost three times my age
yet they enjoy a breath of youth
amongst their aged congregation.
they’re quaint and perfectly harmless
just like I’m supposed to be.
“connections are healthy, even the smallest
Of ones.” He’d say
before reclining into his chair made
of diplomas and knowledge of the subconscious
yet to be regurgitated onto those
who dearly need it.
if I ever kill him,
it would be death
by a million paper cuts.
It’s a shame he’s a masochist
and the power change would probably
be enjoyable but hey
Whatever gets them off I guess.
I am currently attending San Francisco State University as a Humanities major and Acting minor. I've always been intrigued by poetry and now I am simply trying to find my own style of writing/my poetic voice.