I see it in the eyes of the poet;
not the well-written and famous one
I bought him off the shelves last week,
but him over there, flicking
ash on the floor and blowing
smoke across my vision.
For a while I stare, first coyly,
then with shameful directness.
Hell, why not. He is watching me.
We share something, this frayed
chain smoker and I. Not his cigarettes.
I get the feeling he wouldn't part with those.
But something as fragile as
the glass in my hand. A necessity
to squeeze, tighter and tighter,
to see how long it can go on,
before it shatters, bloodying our skin.
We share an understanding.
The need to squeeze our lives,
tighter and tighter, to see
how long they can go on,
before they shatter and
blood spills out onto paper.
Life, blood, and coffee rings.
I see what he sees. He nods,
small but perceptible. I lift one eyebrow
in acknowledgement and look down
to write my poem, our poem.
not the well-written and famous one
I bought him off the shelves last week,
but him over there, flicking
ash on the floor and blowing
smoke across my vision.
For a while I stare, first coyly,
then with shameful directness.
Hell, why not. He is watching me.
We share something, this frayed
chain smoker and I. Not his cigarettes.
I get the feeling he wouldn't part with those.
But something as fragile as
the glass in my hand. A necessity
to squeeze, tighter and tighter,
to see how long it can go on,
before it shatters, bloodying our skin.
We share an understanding.
The need to squeeze our lives,
tighter and tighter, to see
how long they can go on,
before they shatter and
blood spills out onto paper.
Life, blood, and coffee rings.
I see what he sees. He nods,
small but perceptible. I lift one eyebrow
in acknowledgement and look down
to write my poem, our poem.
When next I look up, he too scribbles.
© Berenice Dunford
16th July 2004