I think I would be lonely
in a city without money.

​

To not be known by name
at any taqueria, to never wave 
between those effervescing 
vats of aguas frescas. 

​

It’s not an insignificant thing,
I think, to pat the staffy
who guards the bar.

​

To shoot Malört on 
a mutual dare, to relish 
the fwift of darts implanting.

​

I have taken my wages
and whatever time is left
and I have mashed it all
into some theater of love.

​

So how hard, really,
could I be to hold?

​

My head has been so 
delicately shampooed by 
the barber with the ear tattoos.

​

And how hard, really,
could I be to get to know?

​

I am privy to the traumas
of the laundrywoman.
Together we have wept.

​

I think I would be lonely
and I think I would be hungry

​

because this is how we eat
in a city with money. This
is how we eat each other.