One More for the Cynic in Me
There is a question and you
don't know the answer, if there is
even an answer, why you are
expected to answer. It rings hollow
in your head, repeats itself over and over,
and it's the only thing you hear until
he tells you it doesn't matter. Before he
does that, he looks at you, intense like a
feral tiger, blowing smoke into nothingness, and asks,
What is it that you want from me?
A question after a question. You have a
reply this time. You tell him, heart on the table,
I want the ashes from your cigarette,
Your emptied cocktail glass,
The contact of the guy who sold you ecstasy.
He promises to buy you a cocktail dress one day,
grabs your arm and pulls you close, you feel
his words against your ear. There is no other sound.
It doesn't matter that you don't have
an answer, he says. It's about
carpe diem, and per quid pro quo,
You wake up with a start and find yourself
alone. Just you and a very big bed, and the
lingering headiness of the wispy sensation
of last night's dream.
November 21, 2006