All Those Tom Waits Tapes

All Those Tom Waits Tapes

I love him but he is a jealous guy, a bit too sensitive

not exactly attractive but has startling blue eyes

that dance when he plays all those Tom Waits tapes

in his bedroom sitting in a swivel rocking chair

he covers his ears with headphones and disappears

into the burning dark with all those Tom Waits tapes

I don’t exactly know why I am writing this little poem

he tells me I am a terrible writer and I should stop trying

the words I write never compare to all those Tom Waits tapes

I love him but he has creative limitations, a bit too cynical

not wholly present but he has way of walking with adventure

breaking through the noise with of all those Tom Waits tapes

I can’t ask him a question, he possesses one clear cut answer

“nothing beats the drama of a bullhorn”

everything he knows he learned from all those Tom Waits tapes

how to step on the Devil’s tail, how to light a house fire

how to make a hundred dollars, how to look drop dead in a suit

how to ride on a downtown train, all from those Tom Waits tapes

I love him but he is too bemused and moody-eyed, a bit too obsessed

to share a cold pizza, beer, anything else that isn’t a gravelled lyric

anecdote or all the things he feels from all those Tom Waits tapes

anywhere I lay my head I hear the strains of ten thousand songs

anytime I try to hush my love he plays all those Tom Waits tapes

my eyes rain hammers, my heart pauses, orphaned by the sounds

of all the things I can remember and those I long to fully forget

I hate everything about all those Tom Waits tapes, yet I love him

**

In propinquity,

Nic