Smokey Gets In Your Eyes
The pain was there today
like it always is, no matter how cleverly they cut
no matter how hard i haggle for numbing medicines
like it probably will be until they slice out something vital and final.
I soldiered through, half sick on the things meant to help me,
stubborn as a child in school
i would make it through this day
to get to my treat at the end
i could finish my dinner
to earn my dessert.
My prize was you.
To be more precise, you wanting to see me.
An electric note that promised a semi sunny early evening,
hinted at a secretly delicious shared meal,
and accepted my rejoinder of late film reel vacation.
I worked for that today, through some real tears,
through real pain.
I put on a good dress, and painted my forlorn features
because that's the kind of thing we like to talk about.
I packed the boots about which I have been desperate to hear your opinion.
And even as the powder of my pagliacci face streaked with the strain of the day,
even as i gave into the pain and retreated early, i told myself:
it could still work.
Even though I knew something as simple as asking for transportation,
of not being able to be the taxi for once,
was a tempest in this teacup,
i told myself:
it could still work.
And it could,
but not for me.
A stolen afternoon in the sun turned into a clandestine appointment past the bridge.
Hours gazing at the candy bright displays of unnecessary decadence morphed into minutes destined for silent dark.
Because your time and money are precious, and cannot be wasted as mine are often done. You cannot be driving hither and thither, to ferry the sick and ill at ease. When it is not your pleasure at stake, then expediency is the order of the day.
And even then I told myself:
it could still work.
Except that time with me is not your pleasure. My joy is not your joy. My companionship is not your desire. On the best of days, it is merely your duty, and a lowly one at that.
So even though a starving wretch should be happy with any scraps they are tossed:
this will not work.
i don't have the heart to hide the hurt; it's bigger than the muscle in question
bruised and battered, cut and tattered
there's no good side left.
so i drop the line that lets you know
to cease with efforts that are just for show
(you weren't that interested, we know).
Goodnight.
i can wash this silly smile off my face
take off cotton that was too fine for this figure and dabbed in fancy perfume
dig up some other means of distraction
and work a way out of being the jilted.
Maybe, too, one fine far off day,
when i have surrendered to my senses and they are harvesting the cramped fist of useless hysteria from my insides,
i will have the wherewithal to ask those keen slicers
to remove the annoying wellspring of all the grief
(what's one more flick of the blade
in that disorganized goop?)
Wouldn't that be a proactive little trick?
like it always is, no matter how cleverly they cut
no matter how hard i haggle for numbing medicines
like it probably will be until they slice out something vital and final.
I soldiered through, half sick on the things meant to help me,
stubborn as a child in school
i would make it through this day
to get to my treat at the end
i could finish my dinner
to earn my dessert.
My prize was you.
To be more precise, you wanting to see me.
An electric note that promised a semi sunny early evening,
hinted at a secretly delicious shared meal,
and accepted my rejoinder of late film reel vacation.
I worked for that today, through some real tears,
through real pain.
I put on a good dress, and painted my forlorn features
because that's the kind of thing we like to talk about.
I packed the boots about which I have been desperate to hear your opinion.
And even as the powder of my pagliacci face streaked with the strain of the day,
even as i gave into the pain and retreated early, i told myself:
it could still work.
Even though I knew something as simple as asking for transportation,
of not being able to be the taxi for once,
was a tempest in this teacup,
i told myself:
it could still work.
And it could,
but not for me.
A stolen afternoon in the sun turned into a clandestine appointment past the bridge.
Hours gazing at the candy bright displays of unnecessary decadence morphed into minutes destined for silent dark.
Because your time and money are precious, and cannot be wasted as mine are often done. You cannot be driving hither and thither, to ferry the sick and ill at ease. When it is not your pleasure at stake, then expediency is the order of the day.
And even then I told myself:
it could still work.
Except that time with me is not your pleasure. My joy is not your joy. My companionship is not your desire. On the best of days, it is merely your duty, and a lowly one at that.
So even though a starving wretch should be happy with any scraps they are tossed:
this will not work.
i don't have the heart to hide the hurt; it's bigger than the muscle in question
bruised and battered, cut and tattered
there's no good side left.
so i drop the line that lets you know
to cease with efforts that are just for show
(you weren't that interested, we know).
Goodnight.
i can wash this silly smile off my face
take off cotton that was too fine for this figure and dabbed in fancy perfume
dig up some other means of distraction
and work a way out of being the jilted.
Maybe, too, one fine far off day,
when i have surrendered to my senses and they are harvesting the cramped fist of useless hysteria from my insides,
i will have the wherewithal to ask those keen slicers
to remove the annoying wellspring of all the grief
(what's one more flick of the blade
in that disorganized goop?)
Wouldn't that be a proactive little trick?