2 train. Morrison. Thomas. Memory.

Sometimes men don’t care about what hides behind your zipper. Sometimes they exist on the 2 train heading back to Brooklyn to tell you that you remind them of Jim Morrison. And he must know you’re a poet because he wants to know your favorite one. And you tell him that you simply cannot answer that. How to pick just one? And he wishes he had pages memorized for moments like this. And you tell him that memory does not have to be spoken. If you feel them, they still exist in you. And he tells you: if you recall nothing of this conversation, at least remember Dylan Thomas on his thirty-fifth birthday.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s