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Your boyfriend and Michelle,
quietly, quietly guilty as hell,
never sending enough information.
The weirdest attraction between me and you,
not for marriage, no, just to screw,
never sending enough information.
The isthmus and the gate,
the mist, getting away too late,
never sending enough information.
The salon, the carefully chosen clothes,
the poetry which no one knows,
never sending enough information.
The education invested in,
the British movies and their din,
never sending enough information.
Tell me about my stars, and how
you would love---oh what is it now?---
never sending enough information.
Who am I? What is this life?
Did I fail my poem, my children, my wife
with too, too much information?
Or was heaven waiting for me,
waiting for my music, my poetry,
never sending enough information?
