Monday, July 6, 2020


Even after years of feigning
exile and alarm
waking up outside bodegas  
on blocks where he doesn't belong 

he still can't resist hiding
exactly where he's hidden
riding out the verse and chorus,
waiting for the coda.

In math, he's the inverse 
of what you'd call an absconder
sticking to the same path he's
already beaten

and waiting, half-hearted
for his turn to repeat 
the line that he's never done 
anything wrong—

not like those fuckers in 
the Liz Phair songs. And yet, 
he's the one still going
up on his tiptoes 

superstitious and secretly 
past your old mailbox, 
because he's too self-conscious 
to write anything longer

than an open mic poem about 
never sending letters 
or drinking your brand of soda again—let alone 
something stronger.