pink sunshine

I could live the rest of my life
with no more tears for you
if it meant Central Park was ours
and W. 32nd when
you sang “My Kind of Town”
at The Spot
my pink sunshines and your beers
no more than a memory now
that small hole in your jeans pocket
from your wallet
all the stupid things I remember
that keep me awake when it is cold and gray
and too foggy to drive

she doesn’t know who she is
all the clouds look like rain
or snow-every man walks by
in a white t-shirt and faded jeans
and no one ever asks her
who she is-no one ever wants to know
where she came from
all her weather she brings with her
all the storms she leaves behind

falling asleep delirious from sickness
suddenly upon me on a cool foggy morning
I dreamt there was a bee around me
frantically trying to catch it as one
might cup a firefly in the palms
then realizing I could get stung I told myself
open your hands open your hands it will sting you
but they didn’t move for anxious moments
feeling the wings flutter the fat yellow black body
against my skin finally the sides of my hands
unglued I pulled them apart
and the bee hovered then flew