poem: one more for the cynic in me written: 4:13 p.m. on Tuesday, Nov. 21, 2006
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.