I'm a old man with shattered nerves
sitting home alone on a snowy night in a house
that is scattered with junk that I'm too careless
to put away and I just ordered a fish sandwich
from the delivery place down the road.
The kid who brought it to my door had strange hair
and he talked too loud.
I'm having a hard time opening the ketchup packet
for these fries, which are half cooked and soggy.
My fingers are somewhat crooked, spotted,
and don't look like my fingers. I wish I would
at least have young hands. I dont care about the rest.
The TV is on. It makes sounds, it flickers images.
There are people on there doing things
and getting involved with one another.
I think about fish and lakes
and what it must be like to breath water.
I lose my appetite and after a few bites I end up drunk
on wine picking the keys of a small piano I keep
in the closet. Its a big closet, as far as closets go.
It has a light bulb, a chair, this piano, and a table
to rest my drink and ashtray on. I imagine as I play
fingers caressing the white teeth, a woman coming
up behind and maybe smoothing the hair on the back
of my head. As if to say: Go to sleep you dumb shit.
Then we'd lie down and I tell her: Your hair feels good
on my neck.
I try and find a woman from my past to fit this fantasy.
I can't find one. I end up using an old friend's girlfriend.
I like this closet. One end of the ceiling is lower
than the other. I might drag my bed in here.
I'll sleep. A small man in his small room alone.
I'll dream of a fish swimming through snowy air
down a street filled with lonesome late night places
and their late night people crying
under late night neon signs.
It's my soul you see. It gapes for air.
It goes by slow like a strange bird.
