A Fucking Poem

We act like it's no big deal.
You inside sleeping, and
me here, smoking.
Headphones. 5:56pm. TD for the Colts.

Yet every moment I imagine
the turn of a door knob,
and the give of wood.
I cough, practising my first line.

I could say-- "The knife broke before lunch!"
(Bad luck in love if one is Irish;
the onions just help the tears along)
Or maybe even-- "Overkill. Like too much salt!"

Perhaps the music gets louder and louder,
so that even if you did turn the knob,
did call my name,
I wouldn't have to hear. Or cough.

And thus you have me bound.
By your silence. The hope of your speech.
(For you I hold my wrists together,
my arms over my head)

I should go away, of course.
Birth this pregnant pause, only to
return-- sporting a flatter tum?
And you would be there at the station...

... Like a Jane Austen book.

Such irony though: this evil eye anger
silence guilt too much salt
has made a poem.
A fucking poem.