Frequent Flyer

When I say I use tools,
I mean toothpicks
and spoons,
a cashmere shoulder
is all I hold of Manhattan. 

Kicking from the deep end
I pool svelte talent
and
blink, when
eye contact
stabs the heart.

What if the lonely lied
and it's better this way;
whispering on a bus line,
watching napkins float on the river,
retrieving songs the park birds scatter?

Somewhere the Christ
is cornering the market
on cardboard mansions,
and I make my living
handing out flyers
for the tour.