This is September.
I woke up with a
hangover. Had
an untidy shave
and a late shower.
The breakfast went
cold with apprehension but my
coffee was frightfully hot.
I am supposed to read poetry before
you all this afternoon.
This word I do not quite like,
afternoon. It reminds me of all
that I do not want to be reminded of.
For I believe it was an
afternoon when she walked
out of our lives, leaving me to
savor our dinner alone like a
heartless something. And this
word, too, heartless. It is so
meaningless that I do not want
to be reminded of its meaninglessness.
So this is September. And I have read
my lonely poetry before each of your
lonely eyes like nothingness