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Katydids by Sam Bellamy

 

The last time I flew back to Los Angeles

I remembered when you sat in front of me

on an airplane,

23B.

I spoke to you through

the split in the seats.

I told you this city

makes me want to fuck

‘cause I’m always inside my car

with the air conditioning off,

sweating, alone.

 

I thought you might call

when I landed,

ask about

the katydids in the east.

You don’t really want to know

about the sounds they make at night,

about how green they are

against the wood of a house in the country.

What you want is to stop missing me.