Brett

Brett is urban punk, street lights that change

from red to green, his Converse sneakers

disco dance down East Broadway and up

the Lower East Side; the city that never sleeps.

Full lips and stubble, his mouth wraps itself

around politics, philosophy, interesting facts that align themselves

behind rows of perfect teeth

as he kisses the edge of his mug

with hands that fold

and wave, dunk teabags

into boiling water and shimmy

to the sound of the kettle

singing.

He is velvet underground,

yoga at noon, the yellow cluster

of sunflowers that crowd the windowsill

of his apartment.