You find it hard
sitting at the shrine of electrons
to create without hatred
burning holes in your mind.

And across the vast distance,
(well, 400 miles, anyway),
she waits for him. Because no amount of sweet-talk
can hide the truth.
That the telephone can remind her
that she's alive. And the voice
can be disguised, unclear, laid down
blurry and saturated with color
like scrambled cable networks. You can listen
for the dialogue
but eventually the lack of picture
forces your hand.

It always made you sad
that out of all the girls you wrote about
none of them wrote about you.

But maybe it's more sad
now that she's the first one.

And it's just enough
to drive you to drive
even though you won't find anything.

Because you're never enough.
Because the bets are off.
The race is over, and Shady Sides has won,
but your tickets, sad in halves, discarded on the
ground
remind you that
you ran out of betting money
at the exactly wrong time.

Curse this;
break it with one-night stands
of forgotten decadence
and the tired anger
of misanthropy rising.
Break it with the last desperate smile
which wanes toward winter
again.