After years of being in love
with the wrong people
I’m still open like The Paris Theater
on 58th Street. I walk up
and down Sixth Avenue
thinking of who I was six years ago.
The waiters at The Odeon
wink at me. A woman
in a gold dress drinks alone
and men in suits talk of the market
which is up like my libido.
Hello, God. What now?
Will I ever learn how to cook
and not use my oven for sweaters?
Will I stop expecting the French to love me?
Will I carry an umbrella on days
when it says 100% rain?
What is 100% rain exactly?
How could anyone be that certain?
Not even love feels that way
and again I’m the person
telling strangers more than I should.
The person nodding yes
instead of no. The person
who wouldn’t return to the past
even if I had an umbrella.
Why bother? 100% it’s not
as good as whatever this is.
I’ll be reading this & other new poems tomorrow (Mon, Sept 11) at KGB bar. 85 East 4th Street. 7:00 p.m.