Kerouac Pushover

I’ve thought about this—
kept notes—
and I’m cold.

I’ve become a real estate agent
for high-rise office buildings—
riding up elevators with a confident
smile arcing out over the length of the city.

In the old familiar groove of work
and play and dull girls, I am
the smirking floor wax
of slapstick pratfalls.

I have lofted the bed and it hurts
my feet to sleep it.
Things will fall.
Or be picketed or closed off
for constructions or parade routes.

Above the wet night,
the pavement twinkles or perhaps
winks at me. I can’t
keep up with everything.
These are the unfortunate
days of the ten o’clock bedtime.

Jack Kerouac is staring at me
and just letting me know that he
disapproves of my bourgeois concerns.
Well, you know what Jack?
I am all the drug-free silk satin
and steel this city needs and you
haven’t cracked a less introspective smile
in all the years since I’ve known you.
So go.

Eat your apple pie a la mode
and leave me to my watery rice
and deep abiding love of the 17th floor.
Sneakers will make their way back
into the picture. And soon.
I just have to deal with all my professional
envy right away.

I’m living in a place where fluorescents
fall like stars for me to wish upon
and all I can think to want is a minimizing bra.