Listening (draft #3)
by JR
At last, I rose from my bed
to follow a craving for donuts and hot cider.
Outside the place where I get my breakfast,
a sleepless night behind me,
5AM laid a glaze to the pavement
and my temples.
A young man sits across from me,
a hood pulled about his face like a cowl.
I reach across the table and 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.
And I drink one sip, it seems,
for each small wish to die.
I unwrap my left hand
from the piping hot Styrofoam cup,
and I tip it against the cold, thick window,
like to the cheek of a woman you sleep with
but do not love.
The sun moves left across my tight,
tense eyes, and lingers.
He instructs me, "Forget her.
You have maps, the new album,
the open road, 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, it appears, will not be found,
but learned.
This just in:
The many chapters of her face,
the many chapters of her face!
I recall my fingers trying to make
like bookmarks across her.
My bedroom has no door, only a curtain,
and an agreement with James,
my roommate, about "noises".
I finger in my hand the dogged corners of lies
I chose like picking answers on a test
when you know you're guessing from 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.
by JR
At last, I rose from my bed
to follow a craving for donuts and hot cider.
Outside the place where I get my breakfast,
a sleepless night behind me,
5AM laid a glaze to the pavement
and my temples.
A young man sits across from me,
a hood pulled about his face like a cowl.
I reach across the table and 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.
And I drink one sip, it seems,
for each small wish to die.
I unwrap my left hand
from the piping hot Styrofoam cup,
and I tip it against the cold, thick window,
like to the cheek of a woman you sleep with
but do not love.
The sun moves left across my tight,
tense eyes, and lingers.
He instructs me, "Forget her.
You have maps, the new album,
the open road, 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, it appears, will not be found,
but learned.
This just in:
The many chapters of her face,
the many chapters of her face!
I recall my fingers trying to make
like bookmarks across her.
My bedroom has no door, only a curtain,
and an agreement with James,
my roommate, about "noises".
I finger in my hand the dogged corners of lies
I chose like picking answers on a test
when you know you're guessing from 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.