-

Sadness is a little child.
Feed him gin and Nino Rota.
In the dark his mind grows wild.
And he’s helpless but immortal.

With neglect and too much liquor
You will turn him deaf and blind.
Thoughts of me will make you sicker.
I am sad like little child.

-

I live in New York.
Come!
Will you come?
Will you lend me time
if I ask for some?
Will you look at my bed?
Judge me by my books
which I never read...
And give me that look
when I am just sad?

Will you wake at seven?
Come to Rockaways?
Will you find my heaven
long lost, locked away.

Will you drink black coffee
from my chipped, blue cup?
Will you fix my drawings?
Will you make lines sharp?

Will you name my plants?
Will you then name me?
Will you just be here
in my Saint-Rémi?

Will you rest your temples
on my collar bones?
Will you be concerned
when I am alone?

Will you chase the streets
in Fitzgerald stories?
Will you let me be
stupid and worried?

Will you read me poems?
Will you come to play?
Will you fix me drinks
with old Tanqueray?

Will you decide later?
Will you ever know?
If I am a waiter
will you stay or go?

Will you hope to kill me?
Will you grieve and cry?
Will you play me Billie,
with Holiday smile?

-

You smirk and you mock
and you think I'm dumb
for being in New York,
still hoping you'd come.

-

Days depart fast.
I've only managed to read few books.
I go for a walk every afternoon.
I take my water bottle and find a park,
or a coffee shop.
New York has plenty of both.

My water bottle leaks every day.
All of my books from summer 2019 are little damp.
But they still house fascinating lives.