MY OWN DESIRE TO SEE

This cellophane sleeve
Looks like a diamond
Today, noon, crumpled
Though it is, sidewalk
Asparkle with various
Bits of dreck, as an
Old woman sourly
Nears the entrance
Of the Whitney only
To find it closed, I am
Sitting near a hot dog
Stand on a stone wall
In a spot of sunlight
Being spied upon by
Strangers who seem
To feel a young man
Writing in public is
Something to distrust
Which he is, my pen
Able to decipher the
Innermost desires of
Pedestrians through
The particularities
Of their gait, as one
Approaches wanting
Coffee and the next
Scotch and the next
No liquid save tears
From some displaced
Lover’s eyes, oh how
I myself wish to walk
Towards this pen, see
My own desires less
Inscrutably, perhaps
I could teach another
The trick of holding
It, to look minutely
And let the tip writhe
Of its own volition
Oh hell, that won’t
Work, I’d only see
My own desire to see
My own desire to see