Souvenir

You have the beauty of Central Park in the fall
the loudness of bright red crispy leaves
the glossy skin of evenly woven orange covering the ground
the moving hands of open coats waving in the wind
Continuous, always–
predictably unpredictable –

I drown in it
drawing impossible postcards
helpless souvenirs
to hopefully remember that
you are too beautiful

that across the table drinking vodka and smoking cigarretes

you simply are

I leave as quiet as when I got there

In an aseptic computer screen
In a climate controlled dusty room
In my sick world of verbatim
I reduce you to words
I turn you into dry winter
Words. Dry. Winter.
I reduce
YOU
To words
I’m sorry for myself.

(Image: A Walk in the Central Park- By Maryanne Jacobson)