They say the modern condition is one
of isolation, and if I’m anything,
I’m modern. That must be why missing
you feels so inauthentic. Even in
the pastel glow of a Diebenkorn,
I can’t forget that I belong alone.
Unlike the homeless couple, curled
together under a yellow blanket
in the doorway of the Chinese bakery
each night, I hate the intimacy we share.
But if I can imagine these solitary
pictures removed from their frames
and pressed together in a kind of awkward
kiss, and if the photograph of a woman
naked on a park bench were to reveal
the figure perched beside her, a hand
resting on her breast just above
that scuttling heart, then I can say this:
Come home. Help me find a way.
from The Keys to the JailFind it in the library
Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2014
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