I lost my favorite pen.

That’s what happens

when you come home from Brooklyn

stoned.

Worse things could have happened.

People sitting across from me

on the train

were plotting to kill me.

Trains started running in loops

instead of going North.

The bass riff in my head

was good,

I wish I could remember it.

My bass guitar lives in Philly,

anyway.

I felt sorry for myself

during the whole twenty years

it took to get to Harlem.

The lack of love

and intimacy

during my teenage years.

The utter lack of talent

in the present

future

and eternity.