To the Future Imperfect

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The Internet is

The most fluid of mediums

Forgiving and

Forgetful

Like our collective

Memory itself

How quickly it jumps

Off topic as my sight

Alights on the lady

Sitting next to me

While I’m sipping

Coffee here in the Pret 

On West 29th

And how she reminds me

Of myself this dour matron 

Of the hour as she 

Eagerly brushes her cheeks

With rouge and puckers her lips

To meet an upcoming

Stick of gloss

Always so hopeful            

For the scent of some

Life changing romance

Standing in the wings it seems  

Even though we both ought to know

Much better than that by now