heres a scene walking my dog I

stop to chat with a neighbor,

overwhelming him no doubt

with a strange and tangential

rapidly spoken tale

of a brief pause in my life

complete w/ promises of total intoxication

 

as I cruise Lark St a man walks past me

smoking some kind of skunk

and he looks at me

while under my breath I think out loud

not if he (or any man, laughing)

were the last on earth

 

I stopped to ask a crazy woman

(who jumped at the chance)

to watch my dog

while I chatted up a clerk

and paid for cat food,

contemplating the

theft of a Bic lighter and

 

thinking about how

I ran into my old boss today

the one who set so neatly into place

my new and exploratory life

the one I find myself sharing

in random one-night moments

 

driving up Western Ave

in search of cloves

and happy hour (just one?!)

I smoke a cigarette

while listening to First Tube

with the windows rolled down

wishing I had my sunglasses on

 

knowing for all the world

that he was just not good enough

new adventures coming soon,

the original plan having not panned out

and home getting closer by the mile

I try to reclaim that

former feeling

the sense that Im alive

 

then Im in the living room reading Salvage

and trying not to think

because (I admit it)

I broke down once or twice today

and cried and missed last weeks feeling

noting the possibility that

a rainy day might have given

us a chance to be

 

remembering vaguely other

Friday nights

spent focusing on getting

blown glass just right

and I begin to explore

the words I sail upon

pausing for a moment to grab the

CD I had in the car

 

I must have hit

some button by mistake

True Colors came on and I stopped

thought about the moment

while I grabbed a notebook and pen

and enjoyed the onset of a

special warm feeling in my brain

 

as I sit here now (and then)

shivering (another week of winter

in July) and a little bit high

I focus on the complete lack

of thoughtful contemplation

surrounding this moment of

shakedown in my life with

another hour to kill before I go out

 

I never should have let him keep

the poem I never meant to write

the words were forced and not as true

as they could have been

or one day might be

if in this lifetime there exists

one who can tolerate an artist

 

the cat who lives with the girl

who is going through a tough time

is sitting behind me on the back

of a chair while I rest my head on

her body and thank her

(out loud) for being

here for me to lean on