Poetry

102. Heartfelt Plea From Young Artist: Return My Ashtray And Jacket, Please

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The anchorman was shouting
from the TV in the room next door
Stay away from your windows,
do not go outside,
a storm is on the way
.

I was sitting on my window sill
sober with a glass of wine at first
to see the storm clouds gather.
I caught not a drop
of rain.

At 3 a.m., I returned to my throne
reigning over the desolate street,
with yet another glass of wine:
a little drunk
and a subtle shade of crazy,
laughing at the crying wind.

I live on the edge like this sometimes, I told you
in a pathetic attempt to evoke a crumb of compassion
(but you are a real rebel
in a black leather jacket,
cigarette fashionably cradled behind your left ear.)

When all else failed, I confessed
the alarming nightly urge
(3 a.m., give or take a few minutes)
to lunge forward from where I’m sitting:
be it the chair,
or the window.

You rolled your eyes condescendingly,
said I knew nothing of despair or the suffocating
effect of middle-class life on artistic souls.
I ate the ash falling off your cigarette
while you smoked without even
inhaling your death.

Once full, I
spat the cinders of our conversation
back out onto the keyboard,
then sat by my window
with that familiar emptiness again,
missing the transference of your pain,
missing the rain,
missing all that is artificial about you
because I needed someone to negate what’s real in me.

The storm has come and gone,
the anchorman will say.
Thirty acres of crops were laid to waste.
In other news, we have reports of a missing girl
last seen sitting by her window
in a black leather jacket
.

If you see her, contact the police.
Her boyfriend is worried.
He has issued the following statement:

„Come back, please.
My ashtrays are overflowing,
I am suffocating,
with no one here to eat the
cigarette butts
and breathe in
the smoke.
Besides,
it’ll be fall in no time
and I could really use my jacket.
Thanks.“

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