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| Troubadour |
| by Adam Graham |
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Standing on the edge
of a gutter at a rest
stop en route to Atlanta,
I wondered what became
of the troubadour
who once kissed me
on the mouth, in the middle
of A1A, years ago:
The same estranged friend
who stood beside me
on that same gutter
gleaming into the same camera
as we posed for a photo
to commemorate this
most dull occasion.
A photo which now lay
in a stamped envelope
with your name on it,
already a month old.
The same midnight caller whose
3 am phone calls now fill
the answering machine
with gin wet messages
I no longer listen to
completely.
The same commensal
who sat in florescent Chinese buffets
and slowly revolving lounges,
constantly returning to
the bathroom for yet another fix.
The same trick who drank
a magnum of cheap rioja
and went down on his knees
in his mother’s kitchen
to repent pent-up carnality.
To make up for lost time.
The same Fulbright-finalist
who tried to make eye-contact
when blood was found
on the cotton sheets.
The same ingénue
who was robbed by
a hustler in Lima
and told no one,
counting leftover pesos.
The same drug buddy
who fought off the predators
and winced at debauchery--
who sat tripping at red traffic lights
the streets drizzled blue with acid.
The same man who wept
after pulling over on
The Bridge of Lions
mourning for the victims
he would soon join.
Tears spurred on by thumps of
techno and drum and beat.
Matanzas!
The same guy consumed
with Prozac, Zoloft, and St. John’s Wort
who cried on the shoulders
of lovers and friends and soldiers
and sailors at Latino Nights;
anyone who listened, really.
The same scum who lurks
in bathroom stalls
in Topeka and Guatemala City
and J.C. Pennys everywhere
peeping through glory holes
crusted with contaminated blood.
Matanzas Matanzas!
The same lover who sat hunched
like The Absinthe Drinker and said
"I’m dying." with a tamed smile
that always accompanies
modern illness.
And when I just couldn’t muster up
a shred of compassion, you noticed.
Or did you? |
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| September 22, 2003 |
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