I don't write of beauty.
I've tried to reconnect with the world,
In the simple way, perforated innocent youth,
But they know. They sense I am not pure.
The woman across the counter:
The spunky pixie cut and cherry red lips.
I hand over my cash and a smile,
asking, begging with my eyes to be smiled at, too.
She drops three dollars and 73 cents into my palm,
and a suspicious glance into the air between us,
I leave with a sorrow, seen unwarranted.
Sitting outside in a chill and an iron chair
where others may dare to enjoy themselves
I attempt to compose, finding that my heart is closed,
and my hand is scribbling nonsense into empty space.