Everywhere I look I see
my old women, moving on.
They are happy in love --perhaps
unhappy-- but nonetheless
without any thought or worry
to the well being of my soul.
I see them in photographs. I see
them in sweet glimpses as we pass
on separate sides of the street.
I see them with their children, and
their loved ones, and their everything
that they once gave to me. I sometimes
envy the lives I have pushed away. Sometimes
I stay late at the typewriter, pushing keys
into the memory of old flames and burnt
bridges. The vultures stare at me,
at what I have become, and their
cackling laughter can be heard
the whole world over. The road
I have chosen is not a
glorious one.
They have won. They have
their money and their love, and
that’s all they ever wanted. I could
not give it to them. I hurt them all
in order to hurt myself-- perhaps
to save myself-- but they are gone
regardless, and I am left in
what is left.
The ***** are quick, the nights
are long, and the love is
missing. But the words are there,
omnipresent, keeping me aligned
with what I’m here to do, and
who I’m here to do it with; myself.
There is no alternative. There is no
happy in love. There is ink and there
is paper.
The road I have chosen
is not a glorious one.