My

She aches for me.
She pauses by landlines

--With the
Anticipation of a child--

Hoping that I might
Phone
Home.

I am melody.

I am broadness to her ears.

 She is Jade. She is ruby. She is opal.

 On Broadway nights,
 After a
 Spring rain

Her naked streets
Are damp and glorious.

Buildings glance down
To find their own
Perfect reflections
Staring back at them.

I will wait for her forever.

I will write to her in prose,
And in
Letters.

And as her fingers fumble for all
The
Ink silhouettes
That rest on her
Bedstand,

I will study her veiny hands
And how they have
Molded me
Into the woman

I am.

Her eyelashes
Span out past the horizon line.

Barefoot,
[And once with a boy]

I sat for hours
And memorized the landcapes of her body.

She spread her arms as far as the eye could see.

And when he left me,
[And I was alone]
She wrapped me up,

In my mourning
And in her morning,
And in her dew.

And we were enough.

We were cigarettes
And stopping.

We were plum lipstick
And all the the
Dirty words
And proclamations
Of clamoring
Banjo
Songs.

We observed boys with their hair slicked back,
In lace up boots,
With their jeans too tight,
And girls in
Acid washed denim.

We wrote compositions on verandas.
We learned to brew coffee
As bold as our
Beer chests
And
Furrowed brows.

Melodic my city.
My naked feet seep into you
And the soil
Of your precious gardens.
I sip tea with you;
I bring you flowers,
And whimsical stories
Of all my
Western
Wanderings.