This piece is from (un)SPOKEN. It's been stuck in my head for a while now, as has my longing for another night... at the No Exit, or Heartland... Back on the North Side. For what it's worth, I hope you enjoy it.
Bohemian Parking Lot
With Lake Effect Snow
The
acidic flavor of loss
Equal
parts bile
And
orange juice concentrate
The
hazy outline
Of
a conversation
With
blinding noise
Providing
the backing score
This
is where the company parts
While
the rain comes down
Like
a million spears
Thrown
by a tiny army of tribesman
Bent
on the destruction
Of
my temples, if not my soul
Awareness,
I am alone
It
slides upon me
Draped
like a silk sheet
There’s
a comfort there
However
thin and less than insulating
It
may be
The
chill spills through me
One
pint less and I could likely think
At
least join one thought into the next
Without
the abruptness
Of
rough cutting reality
Inhale
the blades of air, so cold
It’s
frozen hair to my face in chunks
Adding
weight to close my lips
I
can smell the exhaust of the car
It’s
gone but that’s still here
In
the parking lot of Yabo’s favorite bar
This
is where it happens
This
is where I finally seize the day
Test
the fragile bond of life
Throwing
myself at its boundary full force
Tomorrow
a new day dawns
With
the dark heavy clouds
Likely
still hanging thick over the L stop
I’ll
rise, dress, and coffee myself
There
may be enough ambition in me
To
shave my face
And
dress in worker’s clothes
Walking
to my platform I’ll pass the scene
Of
tonight’s miserable performance
Only
the briefest of moment’s thought
Will
be given over
Taken
from my bagel and cigarette
The
memory will be a haze
And
not worth the effort to recall in full
I
will force myself not to look into the window
Of
the Evanston sandwich shop,
Where
you worked
Nor
will I look to my right as I pass by
That
house where we met
Smoking
on the porch over idle chatter
The
kind only strangers make with other smokers
The
whole of the time I’ve known you will be made
To
vanish from my mind’s eye
I
will tell myself this lie, until I can believe it
And
then I will have died
Or
the part of me I most admire will have
Buried
under so many wrappers, cartons, and papers
In
an alley refuse bin that smells of the rot
I
will so keenly feel
But
for now I will dwell
I
die, as I imagine giving into
A
frostbitten death by exposure
And
paramedics trying to peel off
The
ice solid layers that surround me
I
die alone
Because
I couldn’t stand to be alone
And
so, have driven away those who
Truly
matter most From (un)SPOKEN, by Dennis Sharpe
copyright 2010
