Synchronicity

Twenty is not midlife,
but you have a gold hoop in your ear
glimmering in the sun
in your cherry red cabriolet
that says otherwise.

You tell me you want to capture the beauty
before it is gone,
or you are.
The gum on the sidewalk is your muse
Ansel Adams your hero
you say it describes the plight of our society
and define it as pulchritudinous.
I say it’s disgusting and I think I stepped in it.

You drag me to your favorite coffeehouse
"poetry night," you say "you have to experience it"
two hours of snaps not claps
and poems with more ambiguity than emotion
leave me wondering if this is the experience you wanted for me.

We walk outside
you slip your hand into mine
and I know in spite of you
or maybe because of you
how I really feel.