Wasting words on half thought speeches,
and steps on roads we walked together.
I waste my time in empty parables,
in parabolic signatures that trace my life from one loop to the next.
Me, the black dot in a line of ink drops from the tip of a pen in God's hands.
Gone are seven dirham taxi rides in Broken Arabic.
Wasting furniture on empty apartments,
and music on crowded subway trains.
I waste my time in black-and-white fantasies,
in bucolic boulevards that draw my life out like lines on a map.
Me, the modern Mediterranean man on the Eastern end of Cabbagetown.
Gone are the nights of grape-mint sheesha on quarters of round tables.
Wasting memories on that "American Dad" episode, and memories again on events transpiring when the room went dark.
I waste my time on lofty balconies,
on silent poetry that recites my life from one page to the next.
Me, the unfinished Portrait of the Young Man as an Artist.