A Coffee Shop on a Friday Night
A set of dominoes and a pack of Marlboros
Lay on our scratched up table,
The one against the wall where Ibrahim and I sit
To play our weekly game.
Bob Dylan plays in the background, a song about something
I’m sure I don’t understand.
We dump the dominoes and shuffle them around
Until they don’t make sense anymore,
Then we talk, while we pick at the bones
And set them up like fangs
In desperate search of an open mouth.
We talk of sex and women and sex with those women,
And how it was with the ones we didn’t
love, and how it might be
With the ones we do but won’t tell.
We talk and talk, until we talk ourselves back,
Back into a corner of our mind, the iron vault
Part of our brains where we keep
Those secret types of joy and an unspoken dream,
That hidden part of ourselves that refuses
To let our lives be bland or our thoughts boring,
And gives us the hope that we’ll always be young.
We talk as if our lives don’t have to add up
Like the ends of the dominoes do.
Our words and thoughts jump like a live wire out of control,
One that we’re too afraid to touch, to really take hold of
And feel the hairs on our arms stand up,
But would rather watch sparkle and die.