Poem with Holes

For a brief stretch of pavement on the Brooklyn Bridge,
the taxi fare was the same as the time, like the supreme
convergence of man and universe,
like every choice I ever made
had moved me toward those thirty meters.
I brightened at the thought of you.

A plague of Swedish Fish,
flopping over the armrests of chairs.
Grapes fermenting on high shelves.
Handstands in bathtubs.
Whiskey, and whiskey, and whiskey.

Maybe it was the Adderall that made you attractive.
The energy, the brightness, the quickness.
The disassociation that someone like me could
mistake for wit.

The way you peel your bathing suit down,
just a little bit, evading the tan line.
The way you disappear.
The way you never say goodbye, not really.