your head dozing
easy in the crook of your arm,
you dream. Oh, you dream
of carved initials under tables, written because
she wanted to be felt, not seen.
Of uncut fingernails, because
she liked the sound it made on the piano.
Of bright green exit signs, just because
they caught her attention.
Of the blue seats of old BART trains, because
they smelled warm and made her head hurt.
Of her little orange tree, because
her oranges made her face pinch up, and that feeling,
that feeling made her body glow.
Of old books in expensive thrift stores, because
she liked to tear them apart and lie in the remains
of someone else’s love. Oh, you dream.
You dream of this wonderful, unseen
girl not yet a woman.
Who you knew, but found too late.
she stares at old men who look like trees,
hunched over themselves,
eating lotus biscuits,
and she wishes she could be as lost as they are, in their
mismatched knee-high socks and newspaper-boy hats.