I Am Measured
I Am Measured
Oh, he did say that, too:
That he measured his life out
in coffee spoons.
And whether it meant he enjoyed
a lot of espressos
or the characters who loomed
or that he was poor
and couldn’t afford
anything but a cuppa
before Noon?
Who knows, but he was writing
to find his groove.
I have measured out my life
in trips to Heathrow.
Two men for whom
I would swoon
for the first in intellect
and his understanding
and the second for his absurd
ways and sarcasm, and supporting.
My Life skips annoying like
bent records waxed
in pain, waning, pining
Yet always a’ feeling inspired!
I NEED TO MOVE.
But I am not boy crazy.
Equally fascinating
are amazing ladies.
But “interesting” does not
stay put in Uninteresting
and everyone here is
married.
Emails go unanswered
for answering a baby’s crying.
There is safety here –
Serenity.
Which breeds routine
and Don’t Smile At Me.
Raphael accompanied me:
a French Swiss kid
From Montreal to New York City.
Eyes tropical pond green.
And paws for carpenter hands.
Spoke to me of everything.
Smoked a smoke like we were having sex.
Not unlike Goulven
with his French confidence.
These guys were 21 and 26.
Like the young Russian
at Food Basics:
Personality ELECTRIC!
I measure my life in paycheques.
And staying out of debt.
Securing health benefits
to treat a body that will be dead
without having continued
risks, nor wearing anything
intriguing, lately —
for bed.
Sylvie Hill 2016