If my fingers bleed,
it is not because I
have
stabbed my hand with my fork,
cream floating in the
morning coffee
between us in that crisp diner
over that crisp newspaper
we both bleed to
produce,
too much banter,
too loose talk,
that long walk full of tales
of woe I can’t
forget,
no banging my head again brick
when I have you to do it for me,
no blame, no shame,
just this nagging
thought nothing matters,
least of all the
blood down my forearms,
self-inflicted, maybe, but not unprovoked,
this new remake of
trading places
, not rich or poor,
but a better seat at the table
with a more amazing
view,
while I still wonder
about that night
when I left the bar…
No comments:
Post a Comment