Friday nights are always the same
An anxiety ruminating through
The shapes your lips make
Desparate, decadent pleas
For the public validation
You crave enough to
Vacuum every day,
Buy organic low fat milk,
Read about socialism
And pretend that I’m
A respectable person.
The pleas go unnoticed
But not unheard.
The scrutiny of friends
Is tiresome
And if I’m not here
To drink the rest
Of the wine you tried
To hide from me
And scream at televangelists
Then who will?
You aren’t so understanding
So you begin once more
Your routine of chaos
A crusade against stagnation
That is yet to be apparent.
While I return with a sigh
To my unfinished poem
And light a cigarette
My own intimate smoke signal.
Poetry | Issue 18
Friday Night by TimA. Rou
