practice makes perfect
or have i always been this callow?
propped up against this glass
like a neon beacon homecoming
til the resident spirits in my chest
come out to take your jacket.
we're painting pictures of ourselves
in the condensed fog of it all
with our tiny extending digits
thumbing through these awful times
there must be volumes of novels
each with their corners folded on
as if it could make this moment.
would it make this last any longer?
and my reply:
to each his own,
followed by a long and awkward pause.
i don't think i'll ever get it right.