"
because there are seven kinds of loneliness
the receptionist keeps a basket of candy
by her desk. I keep my hair long
out of some poorly sublimated need
for tangible accomplishment. on Tuesdays,
the local crackhead calls me Miss America.
most afternoons, the jobless gather in pockets
to shout compliments to each other across Sheridan.
it sounds a great deal like seagulls calling
other seagulls over the lake, or more
accurately, around the raw ascending buildings
where they screech directions, one
to the other, headed for water that is not
the river, past the bridge and the Picasso,
over the heads of the unlisteners, headphones
tucked into our ear-beds, and this is the first
loneliness. in the dream, I pull away slowly,
and you stand there, very still. when I turn
the corner, you are still there, and the next,
still there in the rearview, then it’s not a car at all
but a movie, you’re in an airport in San
Francisco, on an ex-lover’s couch
in Seattle, it’s unseasonably cold
for October, even for Chicago.
there’s too much room on the mattress
and your shoes sit panting in the closet.
what do I know about loneliness.
you’re on your way home to me
and a kitchen where the overhead light
sighs into a dim, the spoons tuck
their worn faces away. it’s best
to argue in person, so you can see
where to aim the knives. this is the third.
I don’t know what I would name a child. four.
across the train, a grown man memorizes the pattern
of a girl’s school uniform skirt. a shirt button
is about to come undone. he leans forward
in his seat, our traincar a compression chamber
draining. five, somebody says, you have
to show up early if you want to get
the chocolate. I want to name this
something other than sorrow, tell you
I have a bird behind each knee. one
is always in a panic. the other, most often
asleep. I wish I could tell you that I know
what I’m doing. was I ever a woman
who could shave her head without flinching?
I was. this is the sixth. we have time
for mistakes. the men on the street orbit
the employment office in a set rotation
visible to none of them. what loneliness
is left? you have the most beautiful face.
Marty McConnell, the fidelity of disagreement (via grammatolatry)
