Saturday [Poem]

Emails crept in, messages chimed in, I caved in

“Sorry, is there a question directed to me?”

“Sorry, I can’t make it.”

“Maybe not start with clubbing”

and, the messages, the missings.

What is it?

Marched in, I can feel it.

Three in the afternoon - cigarettes, scotch, and expresso.

And the binge -

on shopping,

on feeling,

on being, and

everything else.

The most comfortable place was,

when

in that 1997 snow, I can be

free

for once.

I know it too well.

The only promise in life,

the never flaky one,

more on clock than any other -

who am I without you.

Who am I to know -

being loathed,

being struck,

and being,

without sympathetic reasons.

Neiman Marcus staff,

just like another therapist, who

knows me too well.

They know,

the one who shows up after

too many problems,

probably after have thrown up 300 worth of food and alcohol, that

probably is what clogged the toilet.

Who am I to know those people,

without you.

Who am I to know loneliness,

without you.

Who am I to be used to sadness,

without you.

Leaving is a much simpler solution than living.

Who am I to know that,

without you.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.