Trapdoor Fucking Exit, Part 2

*

Driving back from SFO
drinking coffee, the sky
is remote as a ship I would
have to cross the ocean
to reach. In the airport
I thought I recognized
a woman from high school
but it was only a trick
of the fluorescent lighting:
up close she was much
older than me: a thought
stretched too thin to be
thought:

              I will not think of her
              if she will not think
              of me. And she won’t
              she has told me so.

It is 7:48 in Oakland.
I will never see snow again.
I am asleep. At least
                          I’d like to be
                  every waking hour
            of the day.

It is December in Missoula,
and my best friend is sick.

              I cannot think of him
              if he will not let me.
              I have told him so.

The Dow hit 10,000 today,
everyone’s looking for a place
to hide. There is a message
from her on my machine saying
everything will be all right.
Yesterday, I picked up the phone
and she was surprised that I was
awake. It was 1:45 p.m. I asked
when she was coming home.
She said, “Don’t hold your breath.”
My father used to say that
all the time. I wish we could
watch the stars fall and shatter
the rocks along the peninsula.
Then it would be summer,
and dark. I will never think
of them as distant suns again.
Tonight I want to be alone
with everyone I love

              Right now I am thinking
              of them and they
              are thinking of me, I hope.

*

Not exactly sure what
I’m happy about, but I am.
Can’t I just see something
without recollecting it later?

There are more questions
where that one came from
but none worth asking.

And it’s good to feel happy
at times, you tell yourself
walking into another day’s
white reflecting back
from storefront windows,
but it’s not about
              how you feel now,
                 alone, it’s how
                                 others feel
                                 about you
                 when they’re with you.

When I’m with you, I am lost
and it’s good to feel lost
I tell myself, walking past Noah’s
past Albertson’s past Long’s
to Lake Merritt which doesn’t
smell that bad today
because it’s cold.

I want the lake to flood
the streets, but the engineers
won’t let that happen.

And I thought that I never
wanted to see snow again,
but it’s all right to feel
sinister, walking around high
and square, floating really
through another weekend.

I am not “you and I” anymore
but I will still try to sing about it
even if you won’t sing with me
la la la is only a sound
wind drives a winter rain
that I hope to never see again.