Marriage eventually never helps.
by MARINA GIPPS
Eating my Nutri-frost crunch
On my New York City murphy bed
With dreams of leaving.
New York can be cold like that, only sometimes.
Imagine him, listening to the airwaves
Of police car radio, a petty obsession glued to
Song announcer “kid” stepping back in time,
Into a swarmy marshmallow dusk.
You ask yourself, what have I done
These past two months to deserve this?
Watching him fill station vehicles,
Keeping full for the next story.
God forbid he run out of gas
On the way to the next tragedy.
I feel sorry for him. I tell him so. He laughs
As I imagine what could have been for him,
And never for myself.