So we sit, with
pitchers of lime mojitos at a happy hour spot on King
and I look to those metal and glass skyscrapers,
the golden eyes set on bright lights.
And we talk, of
messy directions and sheltered dreams
as I stare at men in Ted Baker suits,
full of a lust for new money.
Part of the lost generation: reborn,
that is my working identity
for I understand little beyond this tapestry
of light friendships and a longing for what could be.