Lady, your poems are loathsome to me.
Your self-importance and the conspiracy
Of wills by which you achieve your fame―
These too equally, equally loathsome.
You throw out a word and the woman
Across the aisle slobbers and nods
Her head in vigorous assent
As she devours it, a twitching seal gulping
Her meal of rotten fish.I asked a woman to come with me.
She said no.
I asked another woman to come with me.
She too said no.
I am here alone, lady,
In the dark,
Tearing up the extra ticket
I did not use.In my walk-in closet sits a ship-captain’s desk.
I will place it by the front door
So I can hear my neighbors
On the landing even as I write,
This the level of intimacy
I am seeking to achieve.Lady, as I was leaving
A woman looked at me,
A calculator in her hand,
To gauge her level of interest.
Not many do anymore.
Out into the night I walked and walked,
Taking her face with me.
The moon was well hidden,
The lights in windows few.Long ago and somewhere nearby
A woman invited me to her home.
She wanted to kiss,
Having known darker streets
And what it was to be beaten
Into unconsciousness in a pimp’s
Unyielding care.A test she gave me,
To properly set out
The knives and forks and spoons,
And showed me to the door
On seeing I had failed.What is this solitary pose
That is no pose,
This detachment that sees limitations
While seeking to rise above them?
What is this earth that has
Allowed me to visit
If only for a while
And this feeling that leads me to say,
Oh lady of the fleeting look,
You too were here on this same night,
And now we’re gone?
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