montreal
in the seventh month of winter
my hair was orange, an apricot
graffiti zig-zagged along broken
threads you parked on atwater
avenue and screamed at your
hooves, rubber hands and
engine fuel i inhaled dry ice
my eyelashes spelled my name in
impure abjad, broken al arabiyah
inked on moleskine i tightened
my grip on my birthday coat
red faux from zara in spain
you stared at me from the fourth floor
apartment window as i ran after the
11th bus dirt snow crying for
the failure of my magnum opus
a study based entirely upon
the life of someone who was born &
lived for a specific amount of time.
bad idea
i once dated an uber
driver who always asked
for a quickie at the end
of an 11 hour work day
& got me addicted to vegan
tuna sandwiches from whole foods
he broke up with me when
i said how he is a tender version
of robert de niro from taxi driver.
