How moody is the man in me
who misses you
He buys his smokes
without thanking anyone
And strides under many clouds
dressed in all black
even the socks
And he's callous with the rivers
and the architecture and the mariachi
and the goddamned garish fluidity of this
headache world
And he is stoic as an airport
Fifty thousand accumulated flesh tombs
or more
Pretending about the news and the weather
with their minds drifting always back
to the same thing
How desperate to be so far away in space
but not in time
How desperate is the faith convinced
of two arguments
Both to be and not to be
And he leans against the wall or the pillar
Reading his novel
reviewing the words
He is contained as a spiderweb
Unrealized, an unpopped bag of microwave popcorn
sits on the counter, well out of the sun's reach
Refusing his fate
gazing at his expiration date
Tapping at it impatiently and
refilling his tea and
turning off the radio and
marinating
And he sits now, finally
And he remembers you
But me?
I do not