Picaresque: A ship's soul survivors

When two colors collide
Instinct draws September

You were amongst brown eyes
& orange saris, bracelets, curry
for months
You arrived back in New York
In the night
When I saw you first, I shifted
on the concrete steps
I approached you, touched
Soft cotton, orange om shirt
For a few rupees, I imagined

We met up later at the
Soup & Burger on W 8th street
Each ordered a pound of meat
and spoke in soft tones about
harsh things
discordant themes of reverie

You said it felt different
You said: “You feel it too, don’t you?”
I nodded either up of left
I can’t exactly recall
But I do distinctly remember
the fall of the tear onto the pickle
caste aside.
It has occupied my mind
for some time now.

We paid the bill then made our way
South toward Washington Square Park
Where we found a dark corner on the north
that had a momentarily abandoned bench

It was quiet there.
We kept our talk about the
Summer, the year.
You, back in South Louisiana
Me, back to Brooklyn soon
“It’s distance and unassuredness
It seems absurd
It snaps the branch of us,
In a sense”
A bough already bent

-haunting sailor-esque musical interlude lead by mandolin accordian and tuba-

I buried my face into your
Orange shirt, shifted one hand
inside your left pocket,
holding.
You joked about how she was
wearing brown and orange to
The Conan show; just like you
Completely missing my new brown skirt
My shirt, a saffron hue.

I cried into your shoulder
Sobbing slobbering shaking
We sat, you then rested your head
against my lap and took a nap.
I listened to the song
“The Mariner’s Revenge”
and stared.


:In this belly of a whale
I:t’s ribs are ceiling beams
Y:ou may not remember me
He:r sheets still warm with him
To :keep their vestry nice and neat
The: prior exchanging words
The :following day
Ther:e is one thing I must say to you
To lea:n in close and I will whisper: