Puppets and Prostitutes
I’m an old man, worn out and weary, by the roadside. The litter filled ditch was my uncut cigar. I used to walk in spikes, wore a hat. I was a space cowboy. Some people called me Maurice.
I met a wise witness in my lifetime. My youth grinned. I threw caution to the wind. The sky echoed with my laughter. The dream ended soon after. Rabbit holes aren’t that deep.
I left. You never called. I know you don’t miss me at all. These sands of dust that rise and fall and fade in the air around, they’re all that’s left of the days I’ve held you in my arms. They too will settle down, vanish forever into the vastness of this land, and then, there will be nothing left for me to hope that even a memory of me will linger on. I wish it wasn’t so but the wheels of time don’t stop any more for me than it does for the shining sun on the horizon. I know it’s true. But human weakness knows no limits in my soul too.
I am dreaming of eternal youth in death’s arms. You are fantasizing of a ball. You just want to dance. I had my father’s old tux and you, a brand new pair of shoes to put on. I looked like a giant cockroach. We could’ve matched a few steps before the curtain came down.
I am a sentimental fool. These aren’t old times. I forget it’s no longer the world we both once shared. Love is out of fashion. Lust is a hurried cigarette break that refreshes between the too many things that make up life. Pompatus.
I want to kiss you goodbye. You prefer to shake hands. We both miss not saying what we should have. It’s too late. I can’t stop. There are no red lights on the highway. It is the end. I don’t need roads.
