City of Apples

In our lunch hour,
I ask my friend why.
He tells me
Its because we are oranges
In a city of apples.
When I protest,
He says
"A peach then.
You are a peach in a city of apples."
I don't like this any more
Than the oranges thing.
So he sighs
And says
"People here want apples,
Something you and I will never be.
There is nothing wrong with this."
And I hate this explanation
Most of all,
Because what I am really
Is a fire-bird, a phoenix.
Anyone with any shred of insight
Should be able to see this.
This city, despite the hoop-la,
Is full of men without imaginations.

It is a bleak day,
And a momentary silence falls
Between my friend and I.
Then, he thoughtfully says
"But I'm really hot, back in Pittsburgh."

riding home

You in the red shirt to my left,
I marry you, riding home, without you knowing it
When i turn slightly, and see the inside of your ear,
Clean enough to eat from.
There is a small mole on your brown neck.
Around your neck you wear a silver chain.
(I imagine and wonder what it would feel like
For the chain to brush the hairs of my chest.
Would it pull some of them out?
Would it hurt a little?)
You get off at Lorimer, unaware we that we were meant to be.
You look to your right, and your gaze rests on me,
Just a moment,
Before you walk, mysterious and beautiful, out into the night.