she talked for fifty minutes,
then kicked me out of the brownstone,
to dark bluish rain,
and I feel her eyes on my back,
through the glass.

she is watching me flail,
the sleeves of my raincoat are twisted,
and I can’t put it on, and I’m crying, a little,
and the boy next door, he’s staring, too,
from the frat-house stoop,
she sees their parties from her room,
she said, I hardly think about you.

the monologue, it was brilliant,
and the performance, top-notch,
it is one year later and
I am almost convinced
that she’s fine,
really great,
though her face read deranged,
and I am not quite convinced,
since her hair is blue, now,
with violet-pink,
and I don’t know what to think.

I am walking in puddles, yellow-bruised,
I am kite-high confused
two miles above Broadway,
I am small as a speck at 5:42.


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