Johnny

I spilled Mac&Cheese at my teacher’s poetry reading

I rushed.
Im late and I hadn’t eaten all day but food,
when I finally got my place,
next to a girl who laughed too hard at jokes
that weren’t meant to be funny
She jogged me in-n-out
so much that I forgot about my blob of heart failure until I felt it totter down
my right ankle while
he was talking about a hometown which I haven’t experienced in four whole years
when the cheese from a baby elephants milk, I think
hit the bottom of my balenciagas. They were not triple S’s,
those were twenty eighteen
but I wish I had worn my bright green shoes so they get ruined instead but
maybe Im not meant to write poetry
because writing in a penthouse in Shanghai, absent of the neighbors’ loudened love,
and parents
feels like typing Morse code blindfolded or Chinese spies looking at those dotted lines for the very first time.
that must’ve taken a universe of Wall Street geniuses to figure out
and how do I get the cheese out of my stained shoe sitting here all alone when
girl stopped laughing
She thinks she loves me because I am wearing my SS24 balenciagas, and dior socks.
Im not meant to write poetry,
Almost as much as I’m not meant to pick up mac and cheese, that has begun to solidify and collect hair on the ground of an NYU building during my teacher’s poetry recital.
Someone else will step on it
I hope.