Poem at Bridge 87: Love, Nature, and Letting Go

At Bridge 87

Alone at Bridge 87,
and the sun beams down
on transparent,
metallic green demoiselles
hovering over green frogbits
that look like continents.

I’m shuckling –
Latest Trends on my phone,
a joint of skunk
in my right hand,
thinking of last night’s
Meraki love –

eyes wide shut,
but mind jarred open.

She’s out of my life.
She’s out of my life.

I’m hearing
Love’s not a possession.
Am I really
an ultracrepidarian?

“Is this your playlist?”
I ask the Bangladeshi taxi driver.
“Yes, I’m chillin’.”

He’s driving so fast.
It’s out of my hands.

More from the archive:

Meraki Love Storm