The romantic in me
Wants to kick the charade
And love you less like Shakespeare—
But it’s this Portrait
Of Dorian Gray that’s damned me Wilde
I don’t dare
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One for the romantics.
Watching myself
estranged
through the eyes
of passerby
I,
get this question
all the time.
Why?
Why here?
Why this place?
Why not New York, or
somewhere far, far away –
the kid checking me in to
Planet Fitness doesn’t quite
understand why I’m here –
I know this because
I’ve been there, and there,
more places really than I care
Philadelphia, New York, San Diego
and what did I find?
People!
Yes
people,
glorious people,
who like I
wished to know why?
We romanticize
the lives that are not ours.
I think I’m literally starting to get it.
I could say
I’m hunched
though
I’m seated kind of
lazily – leg on couch
neck bent, ankle
sprain elevated
on green and white pillowcase –
typing
methodically
with a headache
from late payments
unpaid bills
and paranoia,
that could all sound
so sweet, so elegant
like the sound of a typing machine,
if only I was still a romantic
perhaps
I’d use big words to describe my feelings
but
for today
the clouds literally fill the sky,
there’s no check in the mail,
and I’ve got more work to do
at the finish
of this
poem.
Words Of An Average White Male 