Peoples
Park
We strolled together on a cool Saturday.
Breakfast was good,
walking was better.
"I love you right now," she said.
"I love you too," I replied.
We poked our heads in shops,
smoked cigarettes,
and watched homeless people struggle.
"What's your favorite thing to do?" I asked.
"I like to relax and smoke whenever possible."
"That's a beautiful thing," I told her.
Along the boulevard, vendors hawked their trinkets,
kids put out their cups for free change,
a smoke,
or something.
Passing a coffee shop, I pulled her in.
"I want coffee," I said.
She didn't reply, but simply stood.
The waitress asked for my order.
I looked at Sara and asked if she wanted some,
she nodded.
"Two coffees please."
She poured our cups, handed them to us,
took our money, and changed me.
We left and walked.
"What do you want to do now?" I asked.
"Smoke and relax," she said.
I laughed.
"Okay."
We sat on the bench in the park of peoples,
smoking, watching pigeons argue,
and touching shoulders.
"I love you right now," I told her.
She smiled beautiful.
"I love you too," she replied.
It was a cool Saturday.
A Bookstore, Bukowski, and Bad Coffee.
I went to a bookstore the other day.
I walked through an expensive door,
through an expansive room,
across some plush carpet,
and bought a cheap book.
'Love is A Dog from Hell',
Bukowski.
I've spent more on worse,
and he's written better
with less.
I went upstairs
and bought a cup of coffee.
It cost almost
as much as the book.
Between the big bookstore,
the bad coffee,
and Buk's shitty poems,
I felt cheated.
I got up,
left my coffee,
walked downstairs,
returned my book,
strolled past
big shiny
glass doors,
left a smudge
marking
my appearance,
went home,
and wrote my
own
fucking
poem.
Denny's
I didn't quite know what to make of her.
We sat in that cheap restaurant
surrounded by the old and broken,
and the young and stupid.
We drank coffee and Diet Pepsi.
Me — bedraggled, beaten and bothered.
Her — taut, tight and glowing.
She said she was attracted to me.
Was it my bad skin or my stuttering speech?
Perhaps she liked what I'd said earlier,
which I'd long forgotten.
"I don't like your writing," she said.
"I don't either," I answered.
She sipped her Pepsi through a straw.
"Why do you write about such terrible things?"
"Because I don't know about any wonderful things."
She talked incessantly,
I stared shamelessly.
"I like you," she said.
"That'll change," I answered.
She laughed.
I didn't.
I called her the next day.
She didn't answer.
Thank God.
Copyright © 2002 Steven Hoadley
