90spoems/kayak

I said address me and he kissed me on the cheek.
I said address me, address me. Address me.
Inside the men closed ranks,
their bodies like hinged doors
disallowing me, before I could speak.
On the sidewalk, where we always meet,
he leaps into a soft-voiced rap
like going over a falls, a self-propelling
current of words,
kayaking on street corners.
Slipping his harp in and out of his pocket,
he hands me a love poem, folded in fourths.
Unevenly, of course, that goes without being said,
as it all does, but we can’t trust that to be true.
kay…..yak….yak ….come to say
inside before they closed me out,
I was thinking I’d go home and write love poems myself.
What can we make of this trend,
this turn toward love poems. He explains his:
there’s no one special in my life,
and I reply when else can you write love poems,
certainly not inside a relationship.
Outside, near the street corner where
we have been for a good many years,
I am not a man, nor am I young
as a woman is supposed to
perpetually be.