chelsea hotel no. 2 ///

I try to write by which
I mean I flip
yellow eggs in a pan,
pour salt into olive oil and over my shoulder.
Crush basil between my fingers. Everything is over easy.

I abandon the eggs to congeal in the pan and pad silently to the living room where
I put Rufus Wainwright on
the record player. He sings about cigarettes and chocolate milk while leaves fall absentmindedly from the lemon tree I have not remembered to water.

With my legs up the wall I see the window to my left. Outside it is snowing and I consider making a wreath, writing long forgotten, for
I am twenty nine simple years
and all these habits say is
I no longer hear your footsteps in the hall, 
anyway.