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.