postcard for lukács

I found it hard to wait for you. I was bored with the momentary boredom of forgetting that you’re waiting and then remembering again. I was bored with the fascination boredom of studying hard your red shoes against the sidewalk. I was bored enough to go.

I knew you were leaving for Paris the next morning, and that if I didn’t wait, I would not see you again until the end of the summer, but I was bored with that grey-fuzz boredom that settles in your chest. So I wrote you a note.

I told you about the people passing. I wondered whether a tea rose was a pretty as it sounds. I wrote you a few lines of poetry. I folded it up and laid it on the bench. I acknowledged the possibility that someone else might pick it up before you.

I blew a kiss down the cobbled street, to where you would come from if you came. If I dared, I’d wait for you all night. But I have this momentary boredom settled on my shoulders, and I walk away south, into the blue-grey city with my red shoes.