In a lonely place you’ll order the usual: black coffee and crumb cake.
I’m still fond over macaroni and cheese. It was the best thing
my mother ever made besides shy cowboys. Don’t scare.
I’ll sidle towards your end of the counter. So slowly you
won’t catch on until it’s too late. So unobtrusive.
Like all the faces of those cats in your back lot dumpster.
It’s hell to be nameless. And when you think about it you might cry.
Lately I cry over nothing. So, I’ll say, you around here?
How far from Omaha? You missed the last bus to Noho.
That’s a bitch. I’ll notice you’re slightly unfocused.
A leftover from the last bar of the most beautiful ugly women.
Well, I shouldn’t talk–I have the sunken face of the old tabby cat
who ate your morning breakfast. Look in the mirror. Together
we’d be something, huh? So like I know this place.
A cheap motel and you could use a squeeze. But don’t squeeze me
too tight, honey. You got some longass fingernails. I can hear them
scratching against glass. Maybe the bathroom mirror because
you can’t stand my singing in the shower. My last mother of a wife
called it atonal and she stumbled through the night like a pagan hymn.
Or maybe your nails digging into my flesh. Let me warn you.
I scar easy, and if broken, I’ll bleed a Chartreux deep under the sheets.
–Kyle Hemmings