after David Foster Wallace

There are no gods among us
The women sit cross-­leggd
Heads dipped in oblivion
The men sit wide-­leggd
Heads dipped in oblivion
I type this while leaning against the door
Head dipped in oblivion
A homeless woman begs for change
And it’s a cliche

Only the city does this
Kind of disappearing
We each are and then we are not
Ceasing to be
As we had been before entering
Someone’s view
Today I met a great poet
She was late and I skipped breakfast
While waiting—wondering if I should have
Taken the blended shake my girlfriend offered
To make this morning.

I watched the puppies melt on the sidewalk
As their owners leafed through a paper
Few people read
I sipped water and hoped the waitress
wouldn’t judge my aloneness
No one asks for a second plate setting
Just to feel less lonesome


I’ve written this before
On the Brooklyn Bridge
Again during my graveyard shift
At the Holiday Inn off route 46
Many inverted nights
Up hustling whitespace for the corporations
—the nation’s collective memory

Once during college
I ran out of money
and someone broke into my room
And filled my fridge with food

Poetry – Published in Paperbag, 2015

Link to publication