ego

What spins my head only bruises your ego-
And you call it a wound.
Dressed in a bowtie and tails maybe-
dancing with the wall flower
Caught in a bathroom stall.

But me, I am left fishing what’s left of
The instrument others may call heart-
I affectionately refer to as air-
out of the sewer
as if bringing in the catch of a lifetime
Somehow laughing.
The punch line of yet another tasteless joke,
Masquerading as my choices.

The sense it never makes starts flooding me
And being filled with the knowing is my warmth.
I trace the last letter of the word crazy
Over and over and over…
Until sleep creeps in my window
In tired haggard like a long lost friend

and I embrace him
With a little iced tea and a walk on the board.

Ah, when life was simpler.
Before the wet of your mouth filled mine like the comforting taste of home
as I discern the flavors of the breakfast she fed you
After you rolled out of her bed at 4am…


I always served you tea.