or, do we even know what we want

A poem.

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they exit the saloon doors
one after another like a
fashion show,
or open functions on an AS400

or ants, out of woodwork
marching vertically along split trenches of bark,
their petite outlines shadowed by the street lights
of the car park.
i don’t know how much time has passed.
i wasn’t keeping track, and
i’m almost hooting ash.


when do i have to go back?
so it looks more like i’m smoking

and less like a jackass?
it’s a great excuse, to be so old-fashioned
you’d rather you lived in an era you were able
than every five minutes having to excuse yourself
from the table.

there’s a white splotch that just appeared
on my jacket.
i was only eating butter garlic tilapia.
i touch it and it spreads,

descending on me,

running circles around these old dreams,
ones that are always more magical
when there’s someone real onto whom
i can project all these feelings –

like a cheap apricot top with the neck cut low –
i perk up, if only to
straighten in my chair
so i can get that extra inch to see the line-up
beyond the frosted-glass barrier –

toned arms and chest freckles erect,

i don’t know who she is, other than
with those pretty wide eyes blanchening,
she’s probably not Greek
but Canadian.


“what am i looking at?”

she’s actually from fucking Ireland.

//wd 12.29.2024

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