Realization: with the right setup, I really can write poetry on my phone.
These streets begin to seem like the end of the world.
With a backlit sky and torn-up cobblestones
we dress in suits and heels to go to dinner
sweating gently in leftover heat
while a gravel voice plays on the radio
‘For rent’ scribbled on empty storefronts hints
what might have been.
The ice cream on the corner has a line around the block.
Two boys on bicycles hop the curb, first on then off.
Condensation drips down fire escapes from air conditioners above
and a lean-muscled woman with tan summer hair
curves her fingers around one last hazy cigarette.
It’s grown to six poems completed, and another dozen or so in progress. It snuck up on me. And I am sneaking up on it.