Wasted Music
Wasting words on half thought out speeches,and steps on roads we walked together.
I waste my time in empty parables,
in parabolic signatures that trace my life from one loop to the next.
Me, the black dot in a line of ink drops from the tip of a pen in God's hands.
Gone are seven dirham taxi rides in Broken Arabic.
Wasting furniture on empty apartments,
and music on crowded subway trains.
I waste my time in black-and-white fantasies,
in bucolic boulevards that draw my life out like lines on a map.
Me, the modern Mediterranean man on the Eastern end of Cabbagetown.
Gone are the nights of grape-mint sheesha on quarters of round tables.
Wasting memories on that "American Dad" episode, and memories again on events transpiring when the room went dark.
I waste my time on lofty balconies,
on silent poetry that recites my life from one page to the next.
Me, the unfinished Portrait of the Young Man as an Artist.
Poetry by Jack R. Schade
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Written on 2010-08-10 at 20:26
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