Rihanna always has a song
on the charts. Lava hair, baggy
denim, Keith Haring—it’s often easy
to think she’ll always be there
like Michael Jackson, and new texts
recited to friends. People slide tectonic
in weeks from dinner to drinks. Look
at the man lifting a Stanley Cup,
dry tongue yumming the gap
of his front teeth. This city, like every
tract on our continent, once
had colors you wonder if I remember,
lifting my thighs glorylike, and ask
in a cooling voice what we’ll sip in coming summers.
Then later that you’ve been knowing a more
serious thing and no hard feelings.