Day 3

Fact: This is not a new poem but fairly new and performed at the Salt Lines show.
Fact: My computer is being loved on by the lovely (and oh so cute) men of the Pentagon City Apple store and will be out of commission over the weekend. I will catch up on the days on Monday at work.

My tax bracket

Breeds transient men

Looking for women to fix their broken resumes

and pauses between plane rides

They cling to us like life rafts

Couch surfing and begging

for a shore to call home

A place to lay baggage that never seems

to properly unpack

A chest to lay aching heads

that promises to be comfortable

And recession proof

I never knew when I moved to this city that

passing freight trains would be the solace I’d crave

on the other half of my hand hold

The draft only felt after they had moved on

to the next town

I downed shots with boys who promised preaching Obama

Would get them a job in the administration

Men who told me only I knew their next destination

Free spirits moving towards opposite hemispheres

Waiting to spit other tongues with

vocab words in back pockets

Books

Maps

Backpacks

That somehow crowded their bare schedules

where I thought I should be

And somehow

I hold on

Always the obedient anchor

The one that never seems to know when to jump ship

Never seems to notice the moorings thrown from their shell

with a clear warning of momentary

I grasp to it

Ask it to graze my sands and secure

To touch something lost and beautiful

Lost in this ocean

Ask for something that will give me some

Better oxygen

He holds me

Asks me to confirm that we are in fact official

l before asking me if I’m okay

Not knowing where he’ll land in a month

a day

Casually mentions the application he sent to Peace Corps

That morning.

And I rethink my theory on free will

There are just too many damn patterns

But perhaps it is me

I am an impossible pupil in the art of being chill

Never content for waiting for phone calls or next steps

I dream murals out of doodles

Have sleepovers way too quickly

And convince myself that this is all just fodder for poetry

Or romance

Or my own twisted mess of a little black book

Just like every

woman

my age

Right?

I just crave

the chaos
The ruthlessness

The kind of dudes that adhere to no ones schedules

And, mostly, the excuses that come at the end

that have nothing to do with me.