New York

I look at you and wonder what you look like to someone who has never seen you before. New the shape of your mouth, new your nose, your tired eyes, the scar on your left cheek a mystery again – I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting you. I imagine shaking your hand, trading anecdotes about mutual friends. Moving on to a pretty girl I see hanging around dateless in the corner. Maybe I could write poems about her. Ha. Bullshit. Even my name under the title would have you in it. You the fifteen-year-old with dumb hair. You at seventeen on my parents’ couch. You at sixteen, buying me an ice cream. You, nearly twenty, standing under stage lights and looking like a man I haven’t met yet. New your New your New your New your I like to think that if I met you today, I’d say Want to get out of this party?