Love Letter to the East River Amphitheater

To my Bird

We walked a scooter a mile through Soho to reach you,  

helmets on, my hands wrapped around her side,  

we were nearing the border from west to east. Until  

glaring sounds of battery death crashed us to a  

steady halt.  

The fabric of our dresses rippled alongside,

the humor facing each other and our drained scooter, still,

several miles west between us and you.

The girl I wrap my arms around has a name so full,

my stomach could remain fulfilled off nothing but

seeing her as a bird soaring the Williamsburg bridge, she tattoos

her own perching on her arm, scripted on her birth certificate,

imprinted against my belly.

Giggles exhale, crawling their way out of our diaphragms,

two teenagers on the streets in full length dresses,

we walk the scooter, the one illegal for us to ride,

across Soho’s red zone, parking it on some east side corner.

Running down to your entrance,

up to the stage where a DJ once held my shattered phone,

against stage lights.

Have you ever walked a dead scooter a mile through soho streets?