I
am sweet on a waitress here, but she’s
half my age
and hard fluid, at least in the context
of the restaurant –
(Something
Bernice rarely was – too depressed to
express
any form of bitchiness – more evil, less
resilience)…
I’ve seen her shoot some children down –
may be
one of those new modern women who focus
on themselves,
or maybe just stressed at the moment –
but
I
can’t ever imagine being sharp over for
unknown kids…
And why do I let her beauty drift me
into
unsanctioned corners of unloosed regret?
–
I’m perfectly happy being alone – and
don’t know
how to fall in love anymore anyways…
This seems more a rumination on the
imperfections
I’ve perfected, than as a treatise –
which is positive.