had the life of a writer
smoked a joint with disgruntle poets
who strummed a six string
behind Wednesday’s cul de sac.
I sat next to Bukowski’s ghost
rewriting – Alone With Everyone
watched two French women kiss
felt the sun breathing on my face
and heard one drunken poet ask,
‘Does anybody know?’
as if there was a prelude to the question
but we knew exactly what it meant
in the long silence.
Some of us went to Fifth Avenue
sat all the way in the back
as registers assaulted wallets
then made peace offerings with coffee.
I sipped mine slowly
to filter the taste from course grounds
not expected in these places
yet invited to aesthetics
in the scheme of living large.
But I’m not high
and haven’t swayed easily
in the center of moments,
these words are the laboring acts
of a sinner
that often leaves the fleshly chapel
right in the middle of a sermon.
© Tammy Mezera 2015
(Book-All In Unison)