not. tonight

I didn’t expect
to go home alone
tonight, that’s all.
it’s fine, I don’t mind,
it’s all good. I’m waiting
for the train, drunk
and wearing my
jukebox dress. I
have to pee. I
just missed
the train. I left
my book at home
because I didn’t expect
to go home alone

I’m wondering
if I should make quesadillas
when I get home.
so much time
to myself that I
didn’t expect to have.
is this train ever
going to get here?
have to do something
to distract myself.

I check my transit app
and it now says 15 minutes
before the next train comes.
fuck this shit. I get out
and go to the Waverly Diner
to use their restroom.

mission accomplished,
I re-enter the train
on the wrong side. I see
the uptown train
on the other side
and yell “Fuck you!”
at it before I cross over
and manage to make it
by some miracle.

goddamn it, I’m
so hungry. I think
I have one scallion
left. some jack cheese.
definitely half
an avocado. some
cilantro. sushi rice
with butter. quesadillas
it is, then. the rest of
that episode of Masters
of Sex that I watched
10 minutes of
before I left the house.

this poem is boring
and prosaic, much like
my life right now.
I just didn’t expect
to be left to my own
devices. I didn’t expect
to go home alone

Published by

R. Brookes McKenzie

what fresh hell is this

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