On the Go

The tulips say,
"slow."
On the go,
you race by arms
filled to nearly spill your
books all over the concrete
like so many leaves.
The tulips say,
"hey,
we haven't spoken
in quite some time.
Maybe since last Easter, remember?
You were wearing that goofy pair of slacks
that you found at the Gap
and you touched me.
I thought I was special to you.
Why haven't you written?"
So you take a picture of the cute tulip
that you once tenderly caressed
on an April morning a year ago,
and you split,
books in arms
and late to class.