Pome 47b: In which our hero contemplates his past but attempts to be light-hearted

So this wasn't going to
be about you,
really, or about that
stupid hot day
when you bought that
stupid hot dress
and it was time,
I thought, to
write something fun
(crisse maudit tabernac, I thought,
ostie! write something FUN!)
but i was walking past the park
where we all got drunk that night
in the summer,
so many years ago now,
it was when a hobo shared his
cigarettes with us that time while
a famous french musician
hung upside down from a branch by his feet--
remember?--
and everyone was shrieking and laughing and
passing around jugs of wine and
it was getting late when you
raised your eyebrows (the ones that you
plucked every day, but envied me for since
mine still, you said, looked better--
and fuck you, you said once
in regards to that, and i laughed
and then you said, no, seriously, fuck you);

but, uh, yes,
you raised your eyebrows and
messed your hair a little and
suggested we wander back to bed--

and now,
all these years on, and
no clue where you might be, i thought:

man, i've wasted so many skin cells and
so many kind gestures,
so many first times and
so many hours that i could have used to
cut my nails or
change the kitty litter and
if i didn't remember this park,
or this night, until just now,
i know you sure don't

and i thought again that maybe
we only have so much to give in this life,
and once you've given it all
it's just gone, baby,
and i thought then of
all i might've wasted and wondered
how much of it
was wasted
on you,

or if this really is true, then
how much you
must have wasted
on me, who you
probably don't even
remember.


And I came home later and wrote it all down
only because I liked the lines about skin cells and kitty litter
and thought they made a nice contrast
to my usual and over-serious schtick.