trying to get lost
to give that map on your lap some purpose...
leave you to imagine a note of longing lost at sea,
give you the opportunity to be a hero-
the man with a rescue under his belt-
and dreams of urgent, plea-filled tears
chasing one another down the cheeks
of a pretty young girl.
its really all you need...
the only thing
that will stroke those parts of you
when her hands aren't around.
you'll be grateful some day,
when you're mumbling to the barstool you're leaning on
about the days when you were a man,
and you'll grasp at the necklace you wear
with the heads of all of your trophy wives-
dancing on stained strings
that reek of bourbon and solitude-
and you'll curse each of them,
staring straight into each set of their vacant eyes,
for not being there to help you stumble out the door.