Don’t you want to dance? a friend
asks, and, before I know it, I’m
riding a bike through the rain
in a glitter-bomb jacket, the
swaths of streetlight glow
shattering into dancing
stars across concrete buildings
and rain-slicked signs
I wrestle in bed with
someone new, we are kissing
and laughing, and I am
a mess of neuron sparks,
poet with pen overflowing,
there are better stories to write
This year I wrote letters
only I will read, sighed long
and slow as my eyes danced
them over, hands dropping them
on the desk to yellow
in the honest air
michael king 