For Richard Hugo
Now you say you love me, 20 years too late,
When all the brandy snifters have been loaded onto crates
And the fire sky clouds are as yellow and as gray
As your beard back in the day, when you were one
More nonjudgmental, disaffected intellectual
Snoring in the park, and speaking of the white Christ
Paradise where the homeless are the otherness that unites
In gangsnark screaming the differentially equated mean,
But it seemed you were too busy digging
The distinguished indigenous geniuses
Empirically pick through the empire's receptacles
For disingenuous treasures. Who was I?
Just another unhappy suburbanite trying to pretend
My backpack was as worthless as hers,
The woman with the orange hoodie.
But you did kiss me full on the lips, and hugged
Me with all of what little strength you had left,
And I, as unfeeling as a gypsy, walked diagonally
Away, pleased that I let you come that close.
The streets are too soft, the lost too forgiving.
There was nothing in it for me to feel, then,
But the shame you bravely refused to display.
A million steals and a million tales later
I still can't distinguish the real from the true.
Better that than believe nothing means what it says,
That the plans that are made in advance are as foolish
As asking a rich man for change.
