Borderline
I celebrate my solitude
With a well-deserved fervour.
If an eight-year-old child were to shout at me,
I would be ready to weep.
The soft, naive lightness of drinking away my money.
What does one do in a giant city all alone?
Either tread endless streets until they wear thin,
Or settle down somewhere to steep myself in drink.
The exuberance of others, their youth—
It makes you feel like you own the place.
Those whose time, like yours, has passed
Take refuge deep within the dark corners,
So long as they keep paying their way.
You find yourself watching distant groups of friends,
Even the waiters know—he always comes alone.
Followed by the inevitable, bitter walk home,
Passing out to the sound of Jeff Buckley,
Swearing off it all, never again.
Yet unable to fit through your own front door,
Walking those same streets at a feverish pace,
Only to sit at those exact same tables.
Ugly music playing,
Ugly people all around.
If so, what is all this haste for?
The truth of my creeping closeness to death,
Crushing money underfoot
To mask a lingering misery.