Imogen Immobile

Amongst these austere empty spaces 
And the bleak slush-ridden pavements 
You were first to see me when 
I landed in this gray Chicago 
Witnessing the lack of people 
Roaming in the streets 

But ours is a parade of rainbow orbs 
And summers spent immersed in 
Hailstorms and weathervanes 
Beating out of all control

You’re laughing at my jokes 
And really I’m just spouting 
My imaginary ideas 
You know what they mean 

Every month I fly out
So as not to think of you 

Just like Mr Gatsby 
I orchestrate these parties 
Champagne evenings in The Plaza
Blowing all my money on a perfect 
Vogue New York experiment 
Nestled in these fumes that reach 
Aristocratic heights
Where whiskey goes by hundreds 
And the caviar is all sold out 
Yet you are in another city
Just another brazen flight away 
And I have lost all hope 
That you will show your face

Yet today you pivoted your head 
As if you could not see me 
Leaning on the onyx couch
Stumbling downstairs to fix my grace
Burning after one too many alcoholic 
Beverages and well you should have told me 
Then to stop but I could not stop
As we waited for my Uber 
Traipsing towards another street 
Mocking my abortive sense of space
And you were my cartographer in profile
Standing up erect and if 
I’d had a lot to drink 
Maybe I would have kissed you and
Maybe you would have stopped it
But maybe I would have tried 

Or maybe you wouldn’t need me 
And why should I think you need 
Me when there are so many attractive
Blonde girls going to the gym

There is static in our background 
And my ears are always ringing
Ever since I hit my head 
Yet you drown out my background noise
And my world appears in sharp erratic colors
I’m not sure I need this 

Today some lady had to help me get my mail
And I might have made that up 
For comical effect 

It’s possible that in my forwardness 
I’ve lost the effigy of your respect 
Yet you have always had me lost and baffled
Flummoxed and confused 

At 12 a.m. I think of you

My thoughts are in an empty basin 
My mental stamina is singing its finale 
I would like to speak 
But I cannot remember what it’s worth 
Speaking out
About 

No—I won’t scream out your name
It’s not that I don’t have time 
But, ah, you might be thinking mine

You—trespasser! 
A fever burns inside my stomach 
And it’s tantamount to guilt 

There are easier things to do 
Than to sail through Lake Michigan 
Grab a tennis ball and lead crusades 
Throughout bourgeois imperiums

There is the option to sit mute 
And to observe!