A Love Poem
07/29/2009 § Leave a comment
I understand the revelers.
When even the comfort of old beautiful
words grows cold, and your voice
is as much a ghost upon your solitude as silence,
and there are no mothers or lovers or sisters or brothers
who can whisper in your stead,
that’s when a bottle comes in handy.
Or a smoke, or a tub of ice cream, or a fistful
of pills, or a needle, or a two-barrel shotgun—
anything to pump a little forgetfulness
into the folds of your brain
(as gray as you and your ex in a negative still).
And that’s when you notice
the darkness of city’s alleyways,
how even during the height of day
sun fills them only
tenuously, its tendrils more like
than anything else.
(yet it’s so radiant, no?)
And you may ponder
on those broken strangers
and their camaraderie of dumpsters
and newspaper bedrolls, whether they have
forgotten, or are still trying, or are pretending
to know or not know
just to screw with your head
(but the only difference
between you and her
is a shtick of glue.)
And in your loneliness you will consider
those who sell the warmth of flesh and skin for a living:
yes, even to you.
And you might call one.
And knock on the door.
And enter the poorly lit room
with cheap paintings and sheets
that would glow under a blue moon.
(But before you go in,
let me tell you
she doesn’t care
whether you need a hug or a line
of your crude poetry read aloud,
or to be told that God
is love or that you should
just shut up and fuck
I told you so.