I
Don’t Believe I Am Supposed To Be Happy
once
awake
I
never know if
I’ll
meet the day a
champion
chatterbox
or
a soft modern stoic
&
since no one owns
my heart
I
rise
alone
to
crisp
pine-scented
air
drink
dark coffee
eat
ripe red fruits
w/
bread & butter
&
ignore willful
typewriter
keys
in
the other room
merry
pranksters
all 44
instead
I
compose short
poems
on long walks
the
curse
of
joy
&
the
bitterness
of
brilliance
reveal
a half
remembered
dream
sweeping
my
reverie
like a
clutching
wind
it appears on
the
piece of paper I
found
crumpled
in
my
coat pocket
a
little verse w/
a
perilous future
on
my
travels
I
find another
lone
writer in wait
on
a
park
bench
head
down
pen moving
I
find myself
sitting
down beside
him
&
only
intermittent
banter
breaks
our
stone
silence
I
considered
shape
of his skull
beneath
his wooly
hat
the
gilded leaves
pinned
to his lapel
&
wondered what
it
would be like to
trust
his mouth on
mine
I
imagined
in
a single kiss I
could
feel his heart
pump
inside of his
chest
cavity & we’d
dance
slow in a vast
meadow
until I feel a
tear
slide down my
cheek
&
acknowledge
it
is only just a poem
melting
into a scrap
of
paper
it is past noon
I
scurry by all the day
laborers
reading news
papers
eating
sandwiches
out
of
brown
paper
bags
resting
their bones
I consider
stopping
for
lunch
at
a
piano bar
a
sweet reprieve
to
sip house wine
pry
open oysters
&
glug them down
but the
arrogant
furrow of
my
brow forces me
home
I
don’t
believe
I am
supposed
to
to
be happy
***
My bud sent me another prompt, this time
it was the poem’s title – which I joked sounded a great deal like a new song by
The Smiths. So much fun writing this and it came on a good day since I left my
book on my work desk yesterday and had to be alone with my thoughts instead of
Anthony Bourdain’s. I was happy to have
had a project to focus on. It’s difficult writing long poems on your phone –
the necessities of creativity stop for no one, eh?
In propinquity,
Nic
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