Love: the old poetic topic
Feeling love is the problem
Feeling that another loves
is a really deep problem
A generalization: the people
who don't feel loved are
teenagers
old people
and everybody else
Fat or thin
Able or disabled
Conscious or unconscious
Nobody feels loved
So
How do we change this?
If you have an answer
Please comment below
I haven't a clue
Barry G. Wick
Afternoon Nap
I decide to lay down
Saturday afternoon
With my buds in my ears
Listening to my jazz station
Out of California.
A yawn or two
And I'm out.
Then it's a dim club
Somewhere.
I've been in too many.
I see a corner booth
Like Capone's
At the Green Mill
In Chicago.
I'm alone as
The waiter
Puts a string
Across the other
Opening which
Assures I'll be alone
I order a drink
Except I haven't
Had alcohol in years.
I sit there when
The waiter picks up
A phone adjacent
To the booth.
I grab a sawbuck
Sliding it towards
him pointing
First to the bill
Then to him
Indicating its his tip.
No response.
Then my eyes open
And I'm back on my bed.
Would my ten have worked
Like it did in Missoula?
Ending the night
With the handsome waiter
In my bed at the attached
Hotel on the river.
I doubt it.
Ten bucks meant more then.
Now I'm just a lonely
Old queer with nothing
In my last home
Waiting to die.
It's the pandemic
Of the 2020s
When anybody with
Half a mind is just as lonely.
My bed is a dark bar
Giving a queer drunk
Something from memory
Of younger days.
I had dreams then
In Chicago.
Now I'm just a lump
No man would look at.
Dreams now are just
As lonely as they were.
Though now ten dollars
Is food for three days
Not a night's warmed bed.
Why is this music
Still feeding my afternoon?
Hunger doesn't end
Like one night stands.
Dreams do end also.
They end in a sigh.
Barry G. Wick
Hyper-change
All the change
I now hate
Is filled with
My bad decisions
Mistakes and screw-ups
Everything is different
For me
It's my fault
My world is no joy
No hugs and no kisses
Boo hoo
So get over it shithead
It's why I chose
To be born
And why I decided
To live
Every time I wanted
To die
That time is coming
For me
So rather than making
It happen
I will let it when it does
Until then
Find a little bouquet
With no flowers
They're all around
It can be appreciated
Even with no odor
The smell of a rose
Is in the dirt somewhere
Barry G. Wick
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