One of my oldest and best friends, the poet and visual artist, Kurt Eidsvig, wrote this and sent it to me recently.  I think it’s a great poem and want to share it here.  Thank you, Kurt.

—

Women from independent coffee shops
can’t decide if they would rather star
in one of your next stories, the works
in progress organized around outdated
Ideas of love, separation, and detached
correspondence, or sit next to your blue
shirt on close booths, let eyes and finger-
tips begin tarot card readings about your
future lives together. There comes a time
in Boston Common’s monsoon variations,
July cracking in half toward August, where
the haves own umbrellas and the have nots
sprint past bus lines marked in number
signs. Hashtag reunion, hashtag words,
hashtag routes and unfamiliar motel signs,
hastag the creep away from constraint and
puddle swims to a three story home with
gargoyles to protect you. If our stories get
personal enough can’t anyone identify? The
girl again, she removes her headphones, leans
closer, hopes you’ll help the sky dry her mind
from the oceans you sail away on.