All day I think about what to do with the day.I walk down the street for a coffee and to thinkAbout what to do after that. On the tableSomeone before me has left a littleSaucer of salt, with a wooden spoonLike a tiny oar in white sand. Eventually I walkBack to my apartment. When I turn the keyIn the front gate, at the bottom of the steep staircaseLeading up to our door, my left eyelid twitches twice.Inside I know there are things I want to doWith Monday: they levitate in the field of viewMy mind makes, opening, like fireflies,Or those old yellow lanterns along the perimeter of a yard.My mother calls from New York: tomorrow isThe last day of Ramadan and I should be sureTo call her, to say ,Which I will forget to do for at least two days.I hang up and scroll through my camera roll:One distant lover, then a second, then a third, thenA shadow passes over the window. San Francisco grayOn the backside of the building, where my windows face,Though on the front side, moments earlier, the sun touchedeverythingEnough to heat it a little, to burn it a little.An oar. My roommate’s dog licks my ankle and IDress for the gym, though I have no interest in staring at a wallFor forty-five minutes while running suspended in the airBeside all the gays I never could connect withDespite my love of sex. I leave my apartment and go to the mall.I buy two dress shirts and a pair of slacks, then leave,Then go back in to buy a pair of gym shorts. In the bathroomI know men who have shame, or like a rush, or bothHawk the stalls looking for tradeOr stand at a urinal waitingFor something to happen, for someone to comeTake them away from themselves. I ride the escalatorUp and down. Am I really thirty-five? What time is it?
