Saturday, March 21, 2020

John Tustin writes


The woman I love
and loved before I knew what love was
and loved when I forgot what love was
is on the other side of the city
with another

and I believe
she is
longing for me
as I long for her,

and the rain
beats my temples
outside the window
like a dozen hammers,

and I beat my breast
in silence,


I sit halfway contented
like a saint,
like an imbecile,
like Buddha,
like Christ,
like me,

watching television,
eating and drinking copiously,
contemplating my sleeping

those two last vestiges
of my humanity.

I even wrote
two poems.

On a night like tonight,
that suffices.


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