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Thursday Night

Ears attempt to drown the rattle of plates and conversation upstairs
The girl on the right is cute, but
I am too shy to talk, and look
her friends have arrived.
I vainly search for a pen in hopes of looking creative.
Far to my left, the poetry begins.

The upstairs is too rude and continues its talk
But respectful silence and cigarette smoke fill the room,
making way only for carefully chosen words.
She'd be good if she weren't so worried about what other people think.

Words fill my head of empty gods and blood
lust sound and sorrow
Yes, my burger is fine thanks
(but you should have asked if I wanted a refill).

"I haven't seen him in awhile," says a voice to my left.
I haven't either,
and he's just as pleasant to look at
and evocative, and kind
as the words filling my mind.
A smile on my mouth dares to greet him,
but I say nothing, even in the break between verses.

The poet wants a happy ending.
I think
What kind of poet is she?


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All original materials © 2003 R. Pickard