for Holden Caulfield
First, let me say that I wrote this entire poem
in my head while faking small talk in a restaurant
with a man whose company I did not enjoy.
Stared right through his pretty face at the
exposed brick behind him, smiled and nodded
like a dumb dog. I want to be honest with you
early in this story so you’ll believe me when
I tell harder truths toward the end. Sure, the food
was good – but we were there because our feathers
needed ruffling, ghosts needed raising; one of us
said something about our fathers and we
were in a library searching for reasons to let
our parachutes loose. We were there to tilt the room
with wine until we resembled enough of the traits
we missed most in previous lovers to wear a groove
into the cherry rug on my living room floor. I would
say this poem is not about sex, but I already look
bad, so I might as well admit that I’ve been
wandering these days. In and out of doorways
and offices and strange living rooms, new haircuts
and new people, corny Irish pubs on the Upper West
Side and libraries gluttonous with super rich kids
whose leather I envy from across the quad until
I find myself seated at a dinner table with one
of them – and it isn’t long from there that I slowly
start being myself again and thinking about other people
and exit signs and rivers and anything I can float on
and grass that grows just high enough for me
to stand completely still and swirl into white
noise like a drink order in a noisy bar. It isn’t long
from there that I wonder what’s next. Who else
is coming to this party. How long do we have to wait.