FROM WANDERLUST

New York, May 2000

It could have been Paris
or London or Frankfurt;
cities she's wadered
in dirty-kneed khakis.

It could have been summer
It could have been endless
It could have been home and
She might have been free.

She always runs into people she knows
on the subways,
even in the faces of starngers.

And she feels no fear as she walks
past Tompkins Square Park
in the danger of darkness.

She wears her blisters as badges,
her smile as self-defense,
and her scars as tattoos.

She comes and goes as she pleases
with borrowed keys and
money that always seems to come from somewhere.

She hears music everywhere and
feels rhythm in the mundane; even
her chewing and head-scratching have a beat.

Her empathy is an entity
beyond her control, she
sees the world through too many eyes.

She makes love with abandon,
not as if there is no, but
because there is no tomorrow.

It could have been Paris
or London or Frankfurt;
cities she's wandered
in dirty-kneed khakis.

It could have been summer
It could have been endless
It could have been love and
She might have been me.