Diana Salier

you came home late one day

and we sat in two vinyl chairs
facing each other
across the kitchen table
like inmate and visitor.

you told me that next summer
you would flee this country
to build houses
practice your spanish,
maybe play football with the local boys,
maybe move back here
in a year
or two, or three,
or ten–

you’re really not sure. but
i know it doesn’t matter
because by then we’ll be
twenty-three
or twenty-four
or thirty-one, and time will just

pile up
like dishes
in the
sink

on hollywood boulevard

an old lady stopped me tonight
outside the american cinematheque

she offered to read my palm.
i said no thanks

i don't want to know
when i'm gonna croak
if i'm gonna choke
or how many hours
are left in the day

i don't even want to know
what i'm having for lunch
tomorrow

so i pulled my jacket in closer
as though it was a former,
yet faithful
lover
and kept walking down hollywood boulevard
heading west,
stepping on all the stars

i think i still carry a torch for you

but it's not really a torch
so much as something to hide behind.

isn't that a romantic notion?

it’s hiding in the bushes so you don't
get shot, but never leaving, anyway
even when you know for certain
that the coast is clear

i guess it’s just more comfortable
wearing camouflage pants
in the middle of summer
pretending to defend against the enemy.

it's not the iraqis we're afraid of.

it's a pretty girl who will
eat your yogurts
compliment your sweaters
share burritos in the east village
and visit you in central park
if you're in town on a warm day,
like woody and mia must have done.

i'm in the west
and you're in the east
and maybe somewhere
in the middle we'll meet

CP

Diana Salier collects sad songs with a happy beat and would like to meet the ghost of J.D. Salinger. She is currently at work on her first full-length poetry collection, A Pretty Girl to Sleep Beside and the Occasional Chocolate Chip Cookie. She lives and writes in Los Angeles.