I stay outside until the dream of anticipation
is greater than the reality being that I probably haven’t said
anything interesting since the last time I think I did.

That definitely hasn’t been since the morning
when the story broke that she had kept his body
surrounded by costly candles on the kitchen table
for weeks. Having felt very bad about the way things
had worked out with her father.

And I don’t have a soul around to tell me
that it might have been last month,
and that my ego was too busy wondering
about the haunted houses and unhinged music teachers
of her childhood small town,
to realize that I had indeed said something worthwhile.

Something all the motionless faces and quick lips
agreed was very intelligent,
very smooth,
and very much in the spirit of something
that just might have set the darkest blues
of the world on fire.

I’m out here chewing cigarette filters to shreds,
kicking Pepsi cans into a black hole
that I hope is just a house with a long driveway
and the cover of a power outage.

I’m gonna wait until I get lonely
for the way someone can really put a hurting on me
by putting their long arm around my great waist
at this time of night.

This is a slow, traumatic night,
and I can take my time.

I can work out exactly what I want,
and exactly what I’m going to ask a daydream waitress
to write down after I’m older,
and after I can finally stop long enough to live up to,
there’s that word again,
anticipation.

Then it’s a good enough walk to the front door,
and pretending something awful just barely missed me.

I will make good on my childhood wish of one day
being able to make it seem as though
I was singing along the whole time.

05/16/2013

Posted on 05/17/2013
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