In a garage I will never own
Are my things
Possessions I never knew how naked I felt without
300 pair of shoes I purchased to fill the void of living in a house with a man who could not love me enough
Would never be what I needed but he tried as hard as anyone had ever made him
There are handbags
About as many as shoes
They carry the things that don’t fit in pockets or hands
My pride
integrity
My imagination
All in bags
Expression on folded papers that hold my worth
Should a thief steal them he will know everything about me
I have no home
No address
No place of residence
And I am okay with that
Shuffle a bags worth of belongings into friends homes
Try out their lives
Decide
I like mine better
While away, I learned more about a friend
than I have in the 6 years we have shared stories on afternoons when poems and lovers wouldn’t come
Or go or stay
In the stillness one discovers how wise or ignorant
How into films I have become
How much I adore my own company
Best I’ve ever kept except
A poet in Brooklyn, who could not be more platonic if he were gay
He loves strange girls
Is a moments kind of man
Falls in love effortlessly
and i sometimes wish he loved me
wish i was more strange or delicate
to know
what that kind of love feels like in the morning.
poems. 