Clues.

Clues

 
I’m hanging out in Market Square
                               
    Something that has not changed for me in
    14 years
                         
I’m with friends, idling and joking
And blunting the minutes
                             
I’m looking at young women

        And thinking about how I could devour that young flesh
And so few of them have anything to say
    But use so many words to say it

That it’s like George Carlin said: A stack of dimes

I have a hard off for most of              

them
As soon as they speak

The evening is winding down
When a woman arrives, obviously intoxicated
And begins to clean out her purse into trash can
    And Mailbox

She starts talking to us about the art of   purse cleaning

    She is gregarious
    Friendly
    And stunningly beautiful
    My heart skips every time I make eye contact

We have a friendly conversation

    She asks what’s wrong with my leg
    And I learn much of her family history

And I realize that 10 minutes more conversation will put me in her bed
   
Then I think about some of the things she has told me about herself,

    The nightly heavy drinking
    She is a local 4 generations back
And I add this to
    She is out, wandering alone, talking to strangers
    Not in a favorite bar,
    (what local has no favorite bar?) 
    Or with friends
    And hearing the clues

 I wonder in how many places her welcome has been worn out,

And all I can think is
    Poor thing

And go home by myself






Chris Walters, 04