Tuesday, February 1, 2011

On A Cold Afternoon in February

I grabbed a balled-up napkin from my nightstand-like table
and could smell lemon, sending me back to hours earlier
when I'd sat alone at a local "goofy shit on the walls" restaurant,
staring out the window into the parking lot
as old people fought against the wind to get back
to their over-sized trucks and extra-long cars,
one guy even lost his hat, and every once in a while
I'd stare at the fire the had going in a large stone fireplace
with little pots and kettles hanging around the logs,
as if somewhere, amongst the store out front filled with cheap toys,
chocolate scented candles and over-priced Ameiricana,
there lies lost some wandering old cowboy who now wonders
if he's make it back in from the 140 pound peanut brittle mountain
in time to stir the beans before they burn,
how thinking about her and burning anything
made me want to push my plate away,
the one I'm eating alone,
and all I can think about is my muse,
how I used to feel about her on days like this,
with all these ridiculous thoughts in my head that bring me a smile
or anger me with their uselessness, how today is her birthday
and I can't tell her that I truly wish it to be a happy one,
how I miss her still... all this from the smell of napkins,
lemons from the tea I drank to wash down the food
that I could barely stomach and later expelled
in a violent case of lost nerve,
all I can do is make myself laugh
at how terrible it is that I miss her,
a girl who could never understand how silly I can be
when I'm so damned directionless on a keyboard
and all I can think about is her


© 2011 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)