Satellites

I arrived late to the party

waited two and a half hours

for a man to never show up.

The music was lame so I made

my way over to the DJ. His name

was Dany and we hit it off.

I remembered him from

a rave in Old Montreal when

I danced all night with strangers.

People remember me more

and stop me for being outrageous

but I am not a DJ, I tell them.

I am a teacher. A nod of the head

and I am labelled.

You don’t look like a teacher.

 

You don’t look like a human. 

 

No one seems to get my humor.

Sometimes not even myself.

This is what being lonely means.

One line sentences that turn

into a poem or a seed

for tomorrow’s poem.

I was supposed to write about

satellites, but it seems

I cannot stop writing about

how you are never

where I am. I imagine

the satellites are never

pointed in our direction

and when they are,

I miss my connection.

 

The DJ told me he wrote a book

about the genealogy of his African

tribe and turns out he is

Michael Jordan’s cousin.

I confessed I wrote a few books

and dabble in poetry. I confessed

my sins to a DJ and maybe he

will write a poem about me as I am

writing about him.

 

You look like a poet. 

 

Not sure what to make of any

of the poetry readings

I have all the intention

of attending. Not sure

I could ever be what

anyone expects.

I disappoint myself

the most.

 

You look upset.

 

 

 

 

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