Frequent Flyer

When I say I use tools,

I mean toothpicks

and spoons,

a cashmere shoulder

is all I hold of Manhattan. 

Kicking from the deep end

I pool svelte talent

and

blink, when

eye contact

stabs the heart.

What if the lonely lied

and it's better this way;

whispering on a bus line,

watching napkins float on the river,

retrieving songs the park birds scatter?

Somewhere the Christ

is cornering the market

on cardboard mansions,

and I make my living

handing out flyers

for the tour.