It’s when I stretch in the cold
darkness—the evening paper read and dinner done with—
that it catches me tight,
bleary dread and that gnawing thought
that curses nothing will happen if you stay here
A clumsy defense: How true is that, really, you know?
I can’t pin down the exacting arc of percentage
but it feels real and wicked enough. It is plenty convincing.
It makes my heart drum sadder and
the hooks of forever and ever loneliness
deepen through another layer, another decade.
I’ve not been here too long
but already I feel younger.
Don’t smile, blink, and say good! because you’re forgetting
the piercing drawbacks
of being a kid. All the lacking, embarrassment, awkwardness.
The hours and evenings here are crushing the confidence.
I just can’t seem to take any sound steps.
I can’t manage to return the rare looks with style
or break any ice of my own.
Who would want This Here Disappointment sitting at their mom’s table,
surrounded by art prints, insightful discourses, and expensive serving dishes that belong to people who have made it on their own?
You wouldn’t want that.
Not when accomplished people crisscross the
sidewalks and bridges every business day.
Not when there are plenty of articulate men
growing hungry in the night for family dinners and
radiant brides.
