jr

Listening (rough draft)
by JR

I tried to retire tonight,
having said goodbye to her.

It proved a coughing crawl
to a small death.

I rose from my bed.

There is the option of
donuts and hot cider.

At the place where I get
my breakfast, a sleepless night
behind, 5AM has laid a glaze
to the pavement and my temples.

A young man is seated across from me,
a hood pulled about his face like a cowl.

I reach across the table to hold his hand.
I tell him about the woman from Toronto.

He listens.

He tells me things like,
"Don't worry," and
"Everything happens for a reason."

I nod.

I drink one sip, it seems,
for each small wish to die.

My left hand is wrapped
around the piping hot Styrofoam cup.

My other hand is tipped against the cold,
thick glass window, like to a cheek.

The sun moves left across my tight,
tense eyes, and lingers.

"Forget her. There are maps,
missions, and women to be won,"

I hush the thought
like a stern parent.

At the place where I get my breakfast,
it is time to wash the greasy spoons,
scrape crusty egg from the grill,
and listen to the _________.

It is Betty's turn to choose the radio.

Doris changes the channel for her.

They, at least, know what each other wants.
Betty and Doris, Doris and Betty.

Perhaps, I think to myself,
it is time for me to listen.

How far from me are all the women
I have tried, in vain, to teach lessons of
that which I knew nothing?

The answer, I believe, will not be found,
but learned.

The many chapters of her face,
the many chapters of her face!

My fingers try to make like bookmarks.

My bedroom in Allston has no door.

I finger in my hand the dogged corners
of lies I chose likeanswers to a test,

when I kew I'd been guessing since the start.

I hold in this hand a cup of cider,
and the reluctance of her analysis,

the questions of her teeth
against my tongue, softly.