I go out more now,
in the evenings.
There's no real reason to,
but then
there's no real reason
to stay in either.
So I go to the pubs,
with my books and pens
and my new clothes
and coins for the jukebox
and other tricks and barricades and disguises.
I don't even drink,
not properly:
the beer bottle in my hand
is really just another prop.
Trips outside to smoke
break up the nights.
I have nowhere to be
and time to kill.
And I can talk for hours,
to people I don't care about,
giving away none of myself,
so that I walk away
knowing the exact dimensions
and textures of their lives,
and leave them dully wondering
who I might have been.
I've got the detached and enigmatic act
down pat.
It's a good illusion.
It doesn't slip,
even when I spot a table and two chairs
in a corner of the bar,
where someone far less guarded than I am
once showed their hand
and gave all of themselves away
without saying a word,
where someone let another
read their entire life
in a single stuttering, breathless pause
between sentences.
Even then, the mask is in place,
and if a certain song
happens to start up on the jukebox,
then well,
I was going outside for a cigarette anyway.
I guess this is the first proper post-break-up poem I've written. It's something, anyway.
And - in case you haven't checked in on my latest 'hopefuls' set yet, make with the clicky.
in the evenings.
There's no real reason to,
but then
there's no real reason
to stay in either.
So I go to the pubs,
with my books and pens
and my new clothes
and coins for the jukebox
and other tricks and barricades and disguises.
I don't even drink,
not properly:
the beer bottle in my hand
is really just another prop.
Trips outside to smoke
break up the nights.
I have nowhere to be
and time to kill.
And I can talk for hours,
to people I don't care about,
giving away none of myself,
so that I walk away
knowing the exact dimensions
and textures of their lives,
and leave them dully wondering
who I might have been.
I've got the detached and enigmatic act
down pat.
It's a good illusion.
It doesn't slip,
even when I spot a table and two chairs
in a corner of the bar,
where someone far less guarded than I am
once showed their hand
and gave all of themselves away
without saying a word,
where someone let another
read their entire life
in a single stuttering, breathless pause
between sentences.
Even then, the mask is in place,
and if a certain song
happens to start up on the jukebox,
then well,
I was going outside for a cigarette anyway.
I guess this is the first proper post-break-up poem I've written. It's something, anyway.
And - in case you haven't checked in on my latest 'hopefuls' set yet, make with the clicky.
VIEW 16 of 16 COMMENTS
I would like to second Toxic's comment. The only person I ever considered too beautiful was Rebecca De Mornay and now you have been added to the list of two.l
This is a great photograph if you.
Nothing is better than a smart woman.