Imaginary me

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)

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