Closing Time
07/17 2022
Mosquito bites, fevered thoughts.
The wind blows its summer mementoes
To make us feel alright,
Despite its smoky debt.
What else can I say,
But to breathe in, and take off my shirt.
To disassociate I sit among the crowd
As the waitress gives me a crooked smile,
Her cheeks rosy and quivering.
OD:ing in the bathroom future.
In the past me & her on the stage
Of a poetry reading:
The silver screen,
The railroad and I,
What is that distant memory?
It is sad, and I see her too.
She nods and awaits that melody,
But I can't but expect more from the crowd
That hardly sees her but for the way
Her smiles reflects against the counter top.
And death, in all of her might,
Speaks to the corpse at the table next to mine
As I practice my polemics in Keats' poetry;
Of beauty and remaining alone.
Death, take my urn and turn it Grecian,
And let the crowd cheer for her turtledove.
The quiet bend for the drunkard,
As the smile fades from her masqueraded face.
White face, crooked smile, watermelon 50% off
Private words for private smiles;
Just before closing on a Saturday.