In Old Mango City,
I wore the thrift shop jacket you like,
and the big shades.
I wore them up, in my hair
as if I were trying out for Queen of the Produce Stalls.
You dissembled, became incorporeal,
And slept with my better nature
behind my back. Remember that tune we liked?
Neither do I. I wish I could.
Here is my black top hat,
and my white gloves. Here is you, appearing again.
Ta-da, I say. You kiss me to make me shut up.
The buses are all out of service
on the road to Old Mango City.
An urchin brought me an orange soda and said it was voodoo.
So, sit here. On the curb with me.
I bet you never knew we were a post card; I mailed us,
addressed to our ghosts, postage due.
Don't be sad. I'm not.
I just always cry at beginnings, arrivals, being here in a new place:
New Banana Town--population you.
for Out Of Standard.