I wonder if you are
tired of me yet,
when it happens
please make me forget.
It is innocent
even when it’s not,
come across me
as if I’m bent,
passing yellow lights.
I will not talk to you
for days
still one word
and you are in again
we write truths
we write lies
we write from a place
which blends art and words
they come out baked
a word poetry pie
full of apple sex
innuendos
desire
frustration
anger
denial
but, above all
no regrets
to walk away from.

What if I went?
What if I didn’t?

None of that mindfucking crap
that wakes me up
staring at ceilings
listening to water tap.

As I sit here,
I eavesdrop about wedding plans
flower arrangements
small lists
that I once pursued
flipping magazine pages
clipping hairstyles
painting cards
writing love sonnets.
Suddenly,
I miss my dad
when I think of how
he answered the phone
on the first ring.

Her dad tells her
use Facebook
to find a florist,
at another table
four young girls
laugh, acting
their age.
Next to me sits
the reading man,
in hipster attire.
I try not to let
all these voices
conflict with min
but I cannot.
So I signed out
of all things that
muddle my mind
and listen to real
conversation
the way that writers do.
I write the words
on paper and pen
as others let it
out with thumbs.
I pack my stuff
time to pick up
my son from practice
lean against the brick
wall
smoke a last cigarette
and conjure you up
in my head.
It’s not that cold tonight.

7 thoughts on “Second Cup 3

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