Attention Deficit Disorder (with a Touch of Hyperactivity)

I had something so important to tell you,
but I didn’t have a notepad or a pen handy.
Fortunately, I was in a bookstore
so I spent $6 on an empty journal,
and I didn’t look for anything cheaper
although I should have since I have
a dozen just like this one at home,
but I bought the journal, and I begged
the lady at the register
for just 10 minutes with her pen.

And at this point, the
important thing I wanted to tell you
was still just barely in my grasp
and lacking much of its passion,
which sometimes is a good thing
and more believable,
or so I told myself
so that I didn’t get discouraged
with the situation
or angry with myself
for being, as usual,
unprepared in life.

I needed to find a place to write,
and I had to move quickly,
like the criminal that I was-
the imposter.

But then the beautiful
people on the magazine covers
smiled at me, and I got confused
because I wanted to know
what they were smiling at.
And I raced by the café counter a second time
trying to find a seat in a hidden corner where I could write
without drawing attention to myself,
not wanting to pretend to be a real writer
and then dealing with the rejection.

But I couldn’t find a seat
because everyone was busy doing actual important work
on laptops with textbooks,
and then the wedding section caught my eye
and made me remember my wedding
and relive it second by second.
And it made me want to become a wedding planner.
Then the literary journals I passed
made me want to be an interviewer.
And the cookbooks made me want to be a chef.
And then I wanted to be a photographer.
And I forgot completely about wanting to be a writer.
And the tender poem about sex in The Paris Review
made me want to make love to you.

But I had something so important to tell you,
and I never do
because I’ve always had such trouble keeping my focus.
But I once wanted to be someone important,
and I want to make you feel important.
Yet it is impossible to write a poem about you
because words won’t do you justice,
and I never have the paper or pen to write anyway.
And I’m far too unwitty and slow-minded
to remember to say how I feel in person.

But there was something I wanted to tell you
about the terra cotta tiles
and the thin stream of people lined up
in front of the magazine racks
seated on mahogany chairs and benches
reading about their interests.
Their faces looked so colorful and peaceful,
and the magazines and journals were
brightened in the overhead lights,
and the people’s clothes and styles faded away,
but they didn’t really seem naked at all.
They were just so real and warm.
And that’s somewhat like how I feel
when you look at me.

The warm glow of the lights
on the magazine racks
made me want to sit around the section
like the lit shelves were the hearth
and the books, the warm fire.
Like it was Christmas time in Mexico,
and we customers were the family,
happily huddled around,
studying the flames
and receiving warmth from the cold
that other people felt
in other places,
so happily lost
in thought and feeling.

And I want to tell you that
I believe
you are the reason
for these kind places
I now find myself
wherever I go.