Lunch Poem

I’m meeting E for lunch
near Washington Square Park.
He’ll be late.
Between here and there I see
old ladies with umbrellas
cursing the sun,
kids in Spiderman costumes
doing flips on the subway bars,
a smashed watermelon on a grate,
towers of trash bags baking in the sun.
I’ve got alligator hands again,
I’ll hide them under the napkin.
E makes me look like I’m getting stood up
at least once a week.
He always texts,
Sorry, I’m on the train.
Already twenty-after we said we’d meet.
Water to start.
Time to think about melting permafrost,
the last white rhino, palm oil and the orangutans.
I’m disturbed by the randomness of moths.
Someone said every good thing you do
pays you back. I watched a woman
cross the road when the red hand was up
and almost get hit by a bus,
my mouth open like I was going to say something.
I like swimming upstream against the foot traffic.
The days just pass, sweep, march, crawl.
Cockroach in the kitchen, clicking around
underneath the refrigerator at night.
Another weird night in the city last night.
A hotel pool and a graffitied bar.
Running in Central Park is romantic
and the statue at Columbus Circle 
reminds me of someone I hate.
Had a meet-cute with depression
in a Forest Hills laundromat,
felt better when I saw the cuckoo bird pop 
out of the clock on the wall.
My weird basement apartment
I shared with my enemy best friend
was crypt-like but comfortable.
Bedford-Stuyvesant? 
The man at the U-Haul place asked when he saw the address I was moving to,
They would’ve killed people like you back in the day.
I don’t know what he means by people like you.
Yes I do.
E still isn’t here and I’ve ordered
Two drinks and eaten a basket of bread.
Times like these 
my aura is feeling weak.
There was a long line for the golden toilet at the art museum
and I felt stupid for wanting to use it,
waited a while in the line that wrapped all the way around one of the spirals of the building.
People in New York say waiting on line, not in line,
same as they say on Long Island not in Long Island,
and I suppose that’s accurate, you do stand on the island,
but not on the line, that would be ridiculous
to stand on people’s heads and shoulders.
That is not the type of thing to point out to a New Yorker.
I settled for the bathroom on the bottom floor by the gift shop,
the white porcelain was clean, but nothing like gold.
Videos in art museums always make me sad,
you come in at the wrong moment, never seem
to get to the beginning,
something about food deserts, refugees, ballet, and insects.
E is usually on time for brunch,
but I’m too broke for brunch.
Downtown, the bull on Wall Street
is obscured by a crowd at all times,
I got a tiny glimpse like when
I saw Emma Watson leaving her hotel once,
Hermione! A throng of people was shouting.
I like to pretend I don’t care about things like celebrity sightings.
The waitress asks if I’m still doing okay.
I think she means, can you please leave.
I don’t want to go back to Bed-Stuy tonight.
The bridge is giving me anxiety, just knowing it’s there,
way above the water. 
I miss the tapestry of Queens,
the falafel carts and the Chinese restaurants,
the hole-in-the wall sushi with the tank full of eels,
all the languages, half of Main Street deserted by four pm on Friday. 
I hate that I always run away.
I cleaned out my room in a weekend.
Now when the sirens flash by all night 
I think about calling the guy I met in the Brooklyn loft.
I was drinking champagne 
when he asked me what my sexuality was.
The waitress gives me another look.
see I told you someone was coming.
I got the guy’s number
but never reached out. 
He said his last name was phonetic when
he handed my phone back to me after adding his contact.
What would have happened.
So much pressure.
I regret every little decision.
What if we were soulmates 
and I missed it!
He worked on New York Fashion Week,
modelled shoes, big leather bags, and peacoats.
He told me,
I’m just a rack for the clothes.
Did I mention he had a British accent.
I’ve given up hope when E walks in.
Sorry, sorry, the L was running late.

Max Stone is a first-year poetry candidate in the MFA program at the University of Nevada, Reno. He is also a book artist and dabbles in fiction. His poems are often about his experiences living in New York City, queer identity and sexuality, mental illness, and being lost in this wild world.