I know the present
because I have felt her shake in my arms
and sometimes I forget
how gentle she really is

I’ve read one too many Beat Anthologies
reviving feeling from the best minds
of someone else’s generation
under someone else’s roof
like the 65 year-old Japanese woman
who packed my two bags of clothes
the milk crate stand for my computer
and the broken futon
because I love too much
and too many
but that’s all in the past

I speak of the Present fondly
introducing her to my friends as “Presently”
presently I walk
with my one hand in my pocket
finger on the trigger of my poetry gun
a spring in my step
and a grin in my wallet
on my journey
on my secret guilty pleasure
each morning to Starbucks
for a daily fix
of above market value
crack-whore perma-grins
and liquid adrenaline

I wait like everyone else in line
for the American Dream
to drop from the frail fingers
of the present
she shakes in my arms
I never ask her to loosen her grip
but I wait like everyone else in line
because it will be a pig-pile
a fight to the finish
while she orders a
double shot extra whip non-fat latte
and I am so turned on