Folly
There’s only so much of this city that I can take.
With its fake women and fast men
And ready-to-go-just-pop-it-in-the-microwave relationships.
The coffee is good though, but hardly warm enough
With the cold of these shiny metal chairs
Piercing through the denim seat of my pants.
And must I go on about the stifling heat and the grime in the air
Which I imagine must be leaving little black spots
On my alveolar sacs even as we speak?
I never can find refuge here.
Not even in that space where I imagine myself resting in your arms.
