It’s early spring.
The rains are here, shining and blue-green and
full of sin.
I don’t want to work. I don’t want anything.
I’m just too proud to show it.
I couldn’t talk like this to just anybody,
talk like gentlemen I mean.
Lonely men always talk too much or they don’t talk at all.
Sometimes all they have left is their pockets, or a Quest
for something in a long mink coat and an interesting perfume.
So come in.
Open my pebbled glass doors with the flaked black paint.
You can cry if you want to.
They almost always do and besides
I won’t hold it against you.
Now drop it.
Pull out your twenty hard-earned dollars and drop it.
It’s not because spring is in the air,
or because I think you’re a fascinating little liar.
I’m bored of doing nothing
rocking on the front porch slow and easy
nothing to do but wait.