Five Sestinas

I: Disappointed

- A sestina for Devin Moore

And who would not have surrendered to those lips?
It isn't quite like me to feel this way.
All night I toss in bed and dream of him,
This boy I met while out the other night
Who stood and wrote on a napkin at the bar,
A boy with costly hair and mournful eyes.

I still see myself reflected in those eyes
And feel those eager lips against my lips
When we sat in the parking lot outside the bar.
I thought it odd even then, the sudden way
He fell in love with me so quickly that night --
As if it was our last. He told me,

From that moment on, that he was married to me.
I thought I saw some honesty in those eyes --
And to tell the truth, on that particular night,
I was out looking for a little more than lips
To kiss, or a neck to scar, but the way
Things had been going of late, I'd never find that in a bar.

But that night, I thought, I might be wrong -- at the bar
I'd found this boy, scribbling all by himself, like me,
And I was taken by the way
The neon light got caught and trapped in those eyes.
I kissed him gently on the lips
And said, "O.K., you win -- we're married tonight."

But something has changed since then -- whatever night
I decide to go out to the bar,
Whenever I do goes out, I always see him, without me,
There. He may glance at me, his lips
Will tighten, he'll quickly avert his eyes,
And as quickly as he can, he'll find a way

To get out of the way.
I end up walking out into the night,
Get into my car, avoid looking at my eyes
In the rearview mirror, and leave the bar
Parking lot. All the way home, I bite at my lip
And try not to avoid the cars which barrel at me.

I hope that tonight, I won't dream of the way
Those eyes once gazed at me
That single night at the bar -- and fuck those lips.

II: Indecision

I'm laying here, alone, in Baton Rouge,
After having said my goodbyes to my friends,
Leaving them still drinking at the bar
And leaving one my portion of the bill.
I've walked out into the rain, got in my car,
And driven here, this place I call my home.

And yet it's odd to call any place my home,
Especially a town like Baton Rouge,
The only place where you can own a car
And still having trouble going out with friends,
Even the ones kind enough to cover your bill
Whenever you don't have money at the bar.

I don't really go out much to the bar
After class on Mondays. I usually just go home
And read through all my mail, sort out the bills,
Write checks out to the city of Baton Rouge
For water, and try not to think of the fun my friends
Must be having right now. Going out to the car,

I find the lights on after all. That car
Has already been broken into, out at the bar,
When I was out alone, without my friends,
And some drunken creep decided to take me home.
He lived on the other side of Baton Rouge,
Where people run up their water bills

As high as they want. The next morning, the bill
To get the broken window in my car
Replaced was more than I could pay. I cursed Baton Rouge
Itself for harboring such men, like the jerks at the bar
Who later regret they ever took me home.

That's why I don't go out without my friends,
But maybe it's best I don't go out with my friends
Either, even the ones who would pay my bill.
At times like this, I'd rather sit home
And read a book, or maybe clean out the car,
Since it needs it pretty badly. The bars
Just aren't very welcoming in Baton Rouge.

But if I took my car out, somewhere in Baton Rouge,
Somewhere far away from home, perhaps some new friend
I meet at the bar will offer to pay my bills.

III: The Night Operator Resigns from the Answering Service

- for Lee Carter and Phil Blanchard
I don't enjoy just sitting and answering phones
Day in, day out, and talking to people
Who'd rather spit on you as look at you
If ever they were to meet you outside work.
But that's what I do here, it's my job
To sit and answer your phones every night.

I'm the only one who works here late at night,
So I get all the idiots on your phones
Who don't understand that the point of my job
Is to take stupid messages from stupid people
Like them, and relay them to the stupid people that we work
For, like doctors, like lawyers -- like you.

Don't get me wrong -- I don't hate you,
Though sometimes, when sitting here alone late at night,
I wonder why I have to do your work,
Relay all your messages, answer all your phones,
Talk to the scum that most decent people
Would never talk to, just because it's my job,

And sometimes I wonder why I have this job.
I think about that often, 'cause when you
Work alone, like I do, no other people
Around, late into the night, every night,
You wonder why you answer these phones
Instead of some other, much easier line of work

Like being a brain surgeon, or work-
Ing on a dude ranch -- just some job
Where there are no telephones,
Just the brains, the horses, and you,
And none of the goddamned people
That call all hours of the night,

Calling your office at 12 o'clock at night
Because they honestly think someone's at work
And they don't know that the only people
Stupid enough to have a job
With hours like that are people that work for you
And stay up every night to answer your phones.

So get someone else to work for you.
Take this goddamned job, these goddamned people,
And come answer these goddamned phones yourself. Good night.

IV: Doing Time

This town feels much smaller than it looks --
A smashed insect seen from above, sprawled out
Across the swamps, like a drunken man.
Nothing else feels lonelier than this:
To see the same faces day and night --
Especially at night -- all over town.

And sometimes you even seen them out of town
Because you always run into someone who looks
Just like that man from the other night
Who snubbed you drunkenly while you were out,
And when you try your luck again with this
One, you find out that this man

Is first cousins with that other man
That snubbed you back in town.
And it sure runs in the family -- he does this,
Too: gives you a sour, bleary look
And then turns and stumbles away from you, out
Of the bar to vomit in the cool of the night-

Time air, as cool and useless as the night
Himself. He's just like every other man
You meet when you go out
Especially since coming to this tiny town
Where everyone knows everyone, everyone looks
The same, and acts the same, this

Place where men are clustered like flies, this
Place where daytime follows night
Like everywhere, night follows day, but looks
Always the same. And I'm the same as any other man
To every other man in town:
I spend my time in going out --

Every night, forever going out --
Because when you're trapped in a place like this,
You have to do just like the townsfolk
Do, love as they do -- try -- spend your nights
Like they do, while the men
Grow familiar as your teeth, their looks

Reminding you of the looks of men
You knew in other towns, on other nights --
And when you realize this, you beg to get out.

V: Tea

None of them really know why they come here.
Some can find no better anywhere else
And so they come to the bathrooms to find a man;
Others simply do not trust
The bars, support groups, other places you go
To find a partner, or simply find some sex.

And that's all they ever find here, simply sex,
Or as close to sex as they come to here,
For when you ask them, they never want to go
With some strange man they don't know somewhere else --
I guess it's a matter of trust,
Since all of them who come here, being men,

Know all too well you cannot trust a man,
Especially in matters of sex.
Instead they stay in their tiny cells and trust
That they won't be arrested for fucking here,
Or sucking, or doing anything else
That might be considered illegal enough to go

To jail, where none of them wants to go.
No one understands just how hard a good man
Is to find, especially anywhere else
Where the motives for being there might be more than sex,
That sought-after pleasure we find so easily here,
That sought-after pleasure that needs so little trust.

Or maybe it's simply another form of trust
That would make a man decide to go
Down on another man and risk his life here
Where care is never expected, and men
Engage in the selfish and selfless act of sex
Without the concern that, anywhere else,

We would always show each other. Or else
It has nothing at all to do with trust,
Since trust alone could never convince me to go
To a dimly lit restroom in search of other men.
It's only ever been a question of sex --
But why does it have to be here? Why always here?

I'd rather be anywhere else but here,
Go out and find anything other than sex --
But because of this, I'll never trust a man.

Tell me what you think!

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