finding clear water isn’t too easy
in city streets determined to be harsh
finger tips reach out in half-desire
they retract in disappointment
with guitar strings broken
and skins worn down to the bone
I fear my friends may have already given up
where there used to be songs
full of glittering insolence
I hear my idols beating a retreat
But now do you see that man sitting over there?
He has a face like mine, sharply lined
only 30 years older
worn and cracked maybe
I don’t know how he sees himself
I keep on asking, he won’t say how he sees himself.
finding a home here isn’t too easy
in city streets determined to be harsh
fingers stretched out in half-desire
to be withdrawn in disappointment
hair is blown back
drifting down the alleyways
I feel a very real lack of human contact here
I’ve been told to get out
I’ve been asked to escape here
maybe it’s my masochism that keeps me so fearless
But now do you see that man sitting over there?
He has a face like mine, sharply lined
only 30 years older
worn and cracked maybe
I don’t know how he sees himself
I keep on asking, he won’t say how he sees himself.
I reached out to see him with an old guttering candle
dripping wax on my little black books
I expected a glance back
or even affection
like a cat being scratched down the spine
what I got back, well it wasn’t even human
the glance back lost, or maybe just denied
I didn’t even know you could kill that emotion
I didn’t know that was something you could go and hide
he didn’t even twitch
he didn’t even move.
© 1996 rob Hinkal