poetry critical

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i'm selfless for kelly; why lie

so i
ran three blocks
in a lampblack, humid night
to get her gyros, 3.46 plus tax,
don't you worry about paying me back.
she ran three blocks to give
a pale, slouchy man his beatup wallet
he accidentally
left behind, and came back
with yet another crumpled phone number;
laughed like she was surprised,
her cheeks flushed from running.
i told her
i think i've found a muse,
she thought i said
i once worked for the news,
offered to bring me home;
it's been violent lately,
but i walked instead, as always,
singing everybody daylight, feeling
like a ghost with a ghostvoice,
wondering how many poems
she's lived in.


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