CALL ME BELOVED

park avenue is painfully vivid as six o’ clock settles,
formless clouds casting their silhouettes against the sky.
I’m writing this in a notebook, my hand finishing letters
with a flourish to commit it to paper and memory –

I feel as though I don’t fit in, as if I’m merely dabbling
in the act of living, like any of my hobbies that lie
neglected and underpracticed. harmonicas, sketchbooks,
folders full of photographs, half-remembered memories are
all placed into drawers to wait for me, for my will to grow
to equal the profound aspirations that I carry like a burden.