LISTENING TO WARPAINT

i have only one single tear for you
the one that you left behind
and as it falls down my face
twists down my shoulder
then my arm and off the tip
of my fingertip i realize
that what we had was a war
and i never meant to go to war
but i did and what i found
is that when we both
want to be at war
it’s probably because we’re both
afraid of what peace
would look like
i think this thought
and then i let it go
off of my cheek like the single tear
which is now gone
staining the cardboard bottom
of the box of your stuff
as your aura
evacuates my apartment soul
and you are somewhere else
and someone else i hope
i hope i made you someone else
which is a weird thing to hope
but when you’re sitting around
listening to Warpaint at 2:30
in the dark pupil of the night
back and forth in a hammock
and across the black river
in a rowboat of your doldrums
sometimes you hope for weird things
and these weird things you hope for
are things that you never hope for
when surrounded by reasonable company
at what has been deemed
reasonable hours to keep

thank you for your time
and your kind donation
to the dismal poetry
of my restless bum poet soul
which is my favorite to write

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

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