Monday, November 12, 2018

allow me

Allow me, please,
One miserable pseudo-sonnet,
Because I am not sure if I am
Disillusioned or merely broken-hearted.

Symphony sings through the coffee shop speakers—
This shop feels like Tmol Shilshom
—the perfect place to ponder heartache
mull as long as you please
dissect your feelings
while the bearded theology student pays.

Symphony comes on—
this time,
I did not turn it on or request it—
It was not that.

It was you
Pouring in in ways I hadn’t
anticipated or suspected
You were a surprise—
Ill-timed, really,
Interrupting work.

Out-of-place because what about this was surprise?
This was just another plan of mine,
a play I schemed and you slipped into place,
acquiescing passively, allowing the world
to happen to you,
until you resist a porous world—
until I realize a character has gone rouge
until you were doing something else.

But no.
That’s not quite true:
you were unexpected,
uninvited to the party,
unplanned homecoming on a Thursday morning,
unanticipated chianti.

Here you are again,
Doing your own thing
In this truly terrible
imitation of Tmol Shilshom.

And I want you to arrive
On your own
Like Symphony.

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