I’m fighting sickness with Starbucks.
Soy chai tea misto in Soho before
Diana’s show.

She told me she painted my portrait
and would I come see her work?

The D train to Broadway Lafayette
got crowded. No one’s hips liked my
laptop beside them.

Mom used to put her makeup on while driving.
Sometimes she even let me steer.

Writing is an excuse to exist.

Drinking tea is like repeating history.
I took my tea unsweetened today,
just to see if it will change my dreams.

How old is twenty four to the universe?
I am as many years as there are hours in a day.
I am two boxes of eggs.
I am James Dean’s last year alive.

It isn’t the kind of sick that you can stay home for.
I caught my reflection in the glass panes
of the lobby at school,
and didn’t recognize my cheekbones.

God made me beautiful.

Sometimes, when I’m tired,
I can see it.

I asked the girls next to me to watch my laptop
while I waited in line.
What would I do if everything was taken from me?

Writing is an excuse to have a laptop.

The nouns from class are falling away.
I can only remember artichoke,

pomegranate. I never want to take
poems for granted.
It isn’t time yet.

I’ll be alive for a while

The gallery hasn’t opened.
My laptop is right where I left it.
The German girls beside me are

remove their Uggs.
Try on the lace up brown boots
that zip up the side
from Top Shop.

They make faces
at the whipped cream on their skinny
peppermint mochas.
They didn’t know it would be so sweet.

I wish I could have warned them.

About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Soho

  1. Thomas Davis says:

    I like the images that mesh staccato-like into a single image by the end of the poem. This is creative work.

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