and wait five minutes more

On Saturday you come to see me,

office man in tennis shoes—

like an unknown creature

An orange blouse

rather than a white one—

it’s that sort of romance

Expertly you tuck away a rice-stuffed omelet,

and I make a mental note:

“Likes ketchup”

Another discovery tonight—

watching you push aside asparagus

in your crabmeat salad

You talk of your work

with such a dependable air—

your dependability is what I mainly understand

Your occasional Mild Seven Lights—

perhaps in the smoke

you dispel discontent

At a Western-style restaurant

our fried shrimp appear

your tail and mine, neatly aligned

I want to tell you that I love you

but first let me edge a bit farther

from the safety zone

My friend fries cream croquettes—

well, after all

she’s a brand-new wife

“Be an ordinary girl”

Listening, I munch

on spicy-hot snacks

Tomatoes ripening

on the supermarket shelf—

sadder than frozen vegetables?

Coffee time for two—

unsettled as a day

when I’ve forgotten my handkerchief

Station worker’s greeting

to homebound passengers at night

strangely comforts my weary heart

Waiting for the train, watching the time

turn from 7:23 (what’s it going to be?)

to 7:24 (what it was before…)

“So, good luck…”

writing this last letter

in a corner of McDonald’s

Past this hill

the road goes straight to the sea—

I slip through the yellow light

Jazz Concert

The guitarist’s mouth,

half open as he plays—

jazz, a downpour of sound and rhythm

The drum beats on, never knowing

of the staves pounding rhythmically

into my flesh

Standing on the amplifier

where horizontal and

vertical sound waves converge—

a can of beer

By the end of the musicians’

second number

I am drenched in notes

Photographer

snapping away at the stage—

he, too, master of his instrument

Like a hit man

he peers into his camera

wrapped in layers of blue smoky air

On the shoulder of the man

with the silver trumpet,

black shadow of the mike

Concert over,

houselights smile faintly

in the pause before the everyday world returns

On the stage, tangled cords lie sprawled

like bars of melted music

fallen off the page

Walking after jazz

through an underground arcade—

hawkers’ cries like the rumbling of the sea

Morning—

my inner ear tingles

with the banked fires of last night’s jazz

Backstreet Cat

I smash the eggshell,

crushing “good-bye”

to millimeter units

All day Thursday

I trust the discomfort index—

it’s the weather’s fault I feel so glum

Lonely—

turn on the TV and see

a woman strangling a man

Red cow

tethered to my keyholder

sometimes shakes its head

Like the morning paper

you slipped into my life

and the word “beginning” took on a glow

The sight of you from behind

reading a paperback as you wait for me—

slightly maddening

I’ll pace myself,

write to you only at two-day intervals,

to make it through this season

Watching you

about to tackle

the last strand of spaghetti

Sticking out of my bike basket