To the violinist on the 4 train 1:15 am Friday August 29, 2008

Oh my god.
You are so fucking good.
I can still hear your music
Strains of summertime and Mozart
you could play professionally
not that I’d know but
here on the 4 train I wish I could give you more than the
75 cents in my wallet
I wish I could
Take you home
With me
Wrap you in my arms
Make love to you while you cry out your orgasm
in your violin.

You look like the boys I went
To high school with.
The boys I first kissed
First loved
Hippie boys
Hair full of dirt
Brains full of pot
Hearts full poetry
Kerouac and the open road
Box car hopes
And Alaskan dreams
Biking to Oregon
Working on tall ships
The boys who I left
Wrote off
Fools
Dreamers
Christopher McCandles
The boys who do not exist in new york
With curly hair and tattered sneakers
You look poorer than most bums.

Make love to me.
Let me take you home.
I will be your patron
Your muse. I will
Pay you in kisses and sex if you
Will only play for me forever.
Your music makes me want to cry and for some reason
That makes me love you.
Come home with me.
Make my tears into music
Make my pain beautiful
Give it meaning.
But you
You have no time for this
You are going to play all night
Until you have enough change for a big mac
Or the parks become safe to sleep in
You are going to ride the 4
Up and down manhattan.
I could follow you
I do think about it
I do
But I don’t want my heart to break
Not tonight.

So I get off the train
Go home
Write you a poem.
Swear that I would have loved you
Forever and ever if only…
If only…
If only you were as real as my love.
Oh well.
You probably have crabs anyway.