Author alley

I’m sitting at a table in the alley
awkwardly talking to strangers
about all these poems I have written
young people, old people
smiling, staring, looking down, fidgeting
carrying purses and umbrellas
people with horribly boring stories
about their lives
I am sitting at a table alone, as usual
while all the other authors
have a tablemate
it wasn’t supposed to be this way,
of course
I guess my partner
had other things to do
the woman across from me
has 5 day jobs,
although I hardly see how that is possible
she is very talkative
which ruffles me for some reason
but she reminds me of an ex-girlfriend
from many years ago,
the various facial features
how she is dressed in secondhand clothes
I do not want to talk to these people
I do not want to talk to her
I just like the way she reminds me
of a time I didn’t mind talking to people
there is one
who has written a novel
about unicorns
and one
who looks like
she might be more comfortable
on a beach in the Hamptons
rather than a fold-up chair in the alley
there are little sandwiches
of cucumbers and cheese
my pinkie rises to attention
as I take the first bite
the girl who I think reminds me of another girl
is eating the cucumber and cheese sandwiches like a starved mouse
they disappear in a blink,
like my hopes of finding a fuck to give
my tablemate
has finally made his appearance
he is wearing a shirt plastered
with flamingos
and he has thick legs,
unnaturally thick, like tree trunks
have you ever seen a man
who walks on tree trunks?
still not the strangest thing I have seen
in a lifetime
the woman who belongs
in the Hamptons
sits reading her own book
and I can’t imagine
reading my own work
after it has left my head
one table down is the poet laureate
of Parma Ohio
the man with the flamingo shirt suggests
I speak with the mayor of my own city
to see if there is interest
I politely say,
“Yes, I should check into it.”
but I don’t tell him
I have no intention of checking into it
I don’t want the responsibility,
the responsibility of such events
that might involve
wearing a ten-year-old tie
hanging defeated in the back
of my closet
the same tie that has been
in the same knot for as long
because sometimes I forget
how to tie a tie
I don’t want the title that comes
with the responsibility either
we have become a society of titles
when we used to be human beings
we, those of us sitting
on fold-up chairs in the alley,
are the writers of the world
we belong to our own special group
but,
we are not the same