I’ve thought about writing this poem for months.
I don’t know why. It’s only a split second
When I’m on my bed
On Staten Island
Sweaty and tired
With the window open
She passes me her cigarette
And as I take it
We make eye contact and her
Face in the shadows, a slight frown
Eyes bleary, teary? Don’t know, should know
Her mouth open a little
She’s a bartender near where I work
But she also lives on the island
Was born and raised like shit
By a schizophrenic mother
On the island, she left home at 16
Her younger brother only dates MILFs
She enjoys her job
She has raw intelligence and reads long books
We had some adventures together
Walks in parks, gritty bars, mediocre museums, late-night drives
But in this moment I know it is
The end and I think she does too
And I know I will pay for this in one way or another
And I think I’m still paying
But after this moment I look out the window
And I hear the shower turn on and
Five minutes later
Before she’s finished
I’m asleep.
Subscribe below: