A kind of powdered suburban poetry fits
like tight black jeans and a wry smile with
a cigar hanging from the mouth as a reminder.
That's right, the tale of the country meeting
the city meeting the boy meeting the man.
Memories are made of these evidently
and when one walks on the other
photos snap more like vignettes than moments,

dance halls creak pleasurably like proud mothers
and lunches lose themselves in the emotion
forgetting to leap out on queue. Gee hold on!
even intra-muros communication seems slower
so debutants' love letters clank in the pneumatic
and the city's smog-tinged sunset brings a tear to the eye.