the last time i cried
we were in a bar on elmwood avenue
& i was drunk.
it was the middle of the afternoon,
on a sunday, in the summer;
august, i think.
you were talking about bukowski
or kerouac, & how their women
could never be in the great writers’ club,
& i just couldn’t help myself.
i don’t know what started it,
hank’s vanishing self, or jack’s
but the tears hit me solid &
i couldn’t stop
not for the frat boys watching baseball at the bar
or for the bartender in tight jeans with a grooved cameltoe
not for the diners and their pleasant meals
or the people hand in hand on the street
not even for you.
i was no good to anyone &
dear i really think something changed
for me that day, some kind of loss set in,
the kind we always just mused about,
& has left me hollow ever since.
because lately i’ve been so lonely,
i just dont know how to say it, except
to write this poem & tell you this:
i’m really sorry i got drunk & cried
on such a nice day.