Do you get sad, sweetheart?
Sitting in the park rotunda writing on your phone
When a man comes in and sits near you; He smells of wine and faeces
You leave, hearing him cry out as you go.
You tell me how horrible it was at that moment, his yellow teeth, yellow face, black eyes
I saw him sleeping on a blanket outside a café yesterday, or someone like him.
The flowers of the city have been trampled
The trees are wrapped in protective boards
men work through the night cutting up the tiles
the scream of their drills echo in the city streets as I walk home.
But alone is really alone.
You have to close the curtains because the glow of the buildings
Light up your room
With painful, sharp white lights
I See the white steam rising from the building rooftops
And wonder where she is
Most likely she isn’t thinking of me.
Instead, she has a hundred phone messages to answer
Sitting in the Roman Room of the museum
How she sat and read her phone, not looking up at the 2000-year-old jars.
How that annoyed, how I complained
Those artifacts of human history, made before Caesar ruled,
Are not as interesting as what Michael or Brett are doing.
Close your eyes and forget,
Life is hard enough without recalling the past, reliving regret.
How will you get out of bed in the morning
If you let the fears of life
Sit on your chest like fat angry devils.
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