It’s a long, forlorn March night
of the sweet victories that stop the tears awhile, before more tears of another kind, the feeble ones, make way in our lives.
The coffee shop is sad, the crowd is flat and the lights are dimming like
the lights of a borough’s diner sixty years ago that I constantly imagine.
Looking at the coffee, breathing in the smoky haze, I wonder if this will be one of those moments where I feel accomplished
for doing nothing but sitting in a short, shabby chair for thirty minutes straight with my book and tissues and pen and jotting down the incomprehensible madness in my mind, bottomless madness coming from the bottom, as my lighthouse liked it.
The woman thinks everything might soon fall apart. But isn’t that one of the many things women think?
They want the world for us, the selfless way while also wanting the world for themselves that doesn’t collide.
The world is a strange place, your world, my world, his world, her world, the black world, the cunning world.
Everything happens to everyone here, but the times are never quite right and you watch wagons of promise shoot past by
Gently enticing you to hop on, knowing that you won’t have the heart to refuse the entire station that sits unexplored behind your back.
The knack is to take a quick glance and an exhausting stride and never stop for if you choose thirst-quenching, comforting juices
Your thirst of the real kind will never be quenched.
The knack is to drink all you can, without actually stopping to drink.