I’ve never been good at living;
with every letter—a hostage to schedule,
too petty for heroic self-restraint,
too indolent to be determined about anything—
I wonder what’s better: to share a rib
or bad breath in a rented flat, so refreshingly inhospitable,
like one of those polite expressions we use
when depicting a whore in a yellow poncho
who happens to be the only one who knows
that promiscuity wears sweat like a coat of arms
and ‘no’ is not the same as ‘I don’t think so’,
leaving me with Keats and table tennis as the Last Rites
or another Tuesday.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
