Tuesday, April 2, 2013

Don’t Even Talk to Me About Loneliness

Why would a middle-aged divorced man
with more new wrinkles around his eyes
than phone calls from his sons, roll out of bed
without hitting snooze every Monday through
Friday, brush his teeth, slap on the Old Spice,
squirm into clothes that are never more than three days
beyond fresh, bend all the way over his portly middle
to lace-up his boots, zip his jacket to the very top,
scrape the windshield of his primer-gray Pinto,
shiver during the defrosting of its inside, curse
every red light as he squints his way through town,
and wait his turn behind two pickup trucks and a mini-van
just so he can order a 20-ounce coffee with one Splenda
from the curvy young barista who twists her blonde curls
and smiles whenever he drives up to the window? Because
it beats the hell out of waiting all day long for the junk mail.



Grey Sparrow - Spring 2013

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