Poem - by Jim Carrol

[mysneaker.livejournal.com]

We are very much a part of the boredom
of early Spring of planning the days shopping
of riding down Fifth on a bus terrified by easter.

but here we are anyway, surviving like a wet street in August
and keeping our eye on each other as we "do it," well,
you go west on 8th St. and buy something mystical to wear
and I'll simply tuck my ands into my corduroy pockets
and whistle over to Carter's for the poster he promised me.

I like the idea of leaving you for awhile
knowing I'll see you again while boring books
W.H. Auden, and movie schedules sustain my isolation
and all the while my mind's leaning on you like my body
would like to lean on your below some statue in Central Park
in the lion house at the Bronx Zoo on a bed in Forest Hills on a bus.

I reach 3rd avenue, its blue traffic, I knew I would sooner
or later and there you are in the wind of Astor Place reading
a book and breathing in the air every few seconds
you're so consistant.

Isn't the day so confetti-like? pieces of warm flesh tickling
my face on St.Marks Place and my heart pounding like a negro
youth
while depth is approaching everywhere in the sky and in your touch.



- from living at the movies