Chinatown, New York

We met on the streets of Chinatown, New York.
He was a beam that held up my sign.
I couldn't see his face. It was in the sky.

I swore against his smile; he was so beautiful
a flower shouted obscenities at his feet.
I painted on anti-heart armor all over my skin.

Even then, I wanted to love him.

He sent me love songs over the phone;
he couldn't sing a damn,
but his father played guitar for us in pictures
and his mother never recovered.

He wore my smile on his palm;
whenever I frowned,
he covered my mouth with his hand.

I stitched secrets into the soles of my feet.
I walked on his back and shoulders
while the secrets seeped out and traveled to his head and heart.

Even then, I wanted to love him.

I want to place his head against my belly and breathe,
ask him if he remembers being there.

He likes the Yankees.
Drinks chilled beers.
Smirks without knowing.
He likes cold air.
Foam pillows that wrap his head.
And peanut butter.
He loves peanut butter.

Sometimes, he asks cookies and ice cream out on dates.
A lucky girl who is sitting nearby might get a taste.

He will cry with you.
But never for you.

He won't be shy to show you the polar bear and penguins that reside within him.
But he is so shy to be warm.
I want to knit him a sweater, ask him to wear it and come play a while.
I want to sing him the songs he plays in my head.
I want to throw out our old records and find him
trailing along the backs of my thighs, asking for a glimpse.

I would ask, see anything you like?

For Dana Tompkins