Much too sober

Pints before two & I’m smitten. She likens
maybe running pants & boots;
they don’t seem a match,
maybe we are though.
It’s a crap shoot. It’s crap,
this life.
In all probability I’m a

No one shows interest in you
if you’re not interested in yourself.

You: case in point, tap away at a keyboard
already bored with me.


I read Frost’s ‘Fire & Ice’ in my head. It’s on a loop.
It’s a mantra.

Hopefully no one can catch on to what I’m catching on to. The faces,
& the jeans & dresses,

short shorts, & boyfriend

Eye-contact is the most fun. I try & have the blue pop
from mine.


I woke up from a sketch
& there were women everywhere.

There’s no helping it, I stare.

It’s important not to linger, on well, really anywhere.

High-waisted things are in. This accents certain curves,
muscles I suppose. Hey, no complaints from me, the eternal
voyeur, abusing the hell out of my periphery.

One thought on “Much too sober

  1. Your poem reminds me of an observation by Gus in Lonesome Dove. Paraphrase: “He’s a noticer.” (or maybe it was , “He’s not a noticer.”)

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