A Long Way
The world is what you make of it.
You know you’ve come a long way
when the Sunday night passes
without making noise, without
planting an erotic desire, without
invoking the urge to write a blog.
You’ve just refused a party-invite
and spent your evening
buying prawns and pickles; afternoon
fixing the LED monitor. It was perhaps
the 113th time you watched that slice
of the movie you watched on TV over lunch.
There wasn’t much to remember
about the coffee that attenuated the hangover
in the morning except for the fact
that it has left the carton of milk empty and now
at 1 am, across a keyboard,
you sit wordless
against the tail of the years
that went by like a cat on a highway.
Memory is often the best fiction you come up with
and maybe there was never a John who played Carom
or a Rita who shrank to a wink or a ceiling leaking
enough water to go with a quarter of Old Monk.
Truth is lost easily and irredeemably
like an eraser in school.