Two Man in Milan

“Who’s driving this anyway?”
—White Lies, ‘Death’

We bend around the road. She crosses
The lanes. The white flash flash flash
Does not concern her: her alien
Style; her foreign land. I am going to mine
Alone. I am losing alone again.
But could this be profitable?

I watch words on the tip of my mind’s lips
Go by; and I hate those kinds of lines.
But when I am bored
And dumb, I record some,

Because when I am more capitalistic I will sell.
I should be
An especially better Buddha though. But can I force…

…What is it? This is exactly the nothing of me currently, as I am not
Even up today

Yet, and it all seems

Already lively: she must not
Have thought that, surely? Was that me?
But fine don’t

Turn with the road, my lover—go straight

Through all the railings and take our wanderings
Away so we can stop
Wondering about…

…Her hand on my leg, which is very
Steadying
Before a flight. Bravo.

(A version of this poem was first published in The Poetry Lighthouse, January 2025 (https://www.thepoetrylighthouse.com/poems?author=67895f97e13a9f080f97d21f))