Run On (RD)

I think my pen hears the music tonight,
as we sit in noisy room, the buzzing
cacophony of voices, orchestra piped
soulless over us, and the coughing start
of smooth jazz, you know that express train
predictable surprise of a silky guitar
hitting that impossibly high note, and the vapid
wink of a guitarist who wants us to know we're
in on it too - then the drummer kicks
up - holy shit, three high hats in a row? crazy,
and he looks powerfully constipated
with piano's hair low over eyes, shielding
her from a cruel world, and my eyes can't
see the page, nor the poem I'm sure
is swell, and my lids burn as they
lower and raise, did you know that your
brain invents what it doesn't see when you
blink? an entire world made up,
and you don't even know you're doing it,
ah someone's told the barista and
the background music's off while the pretty
redhead stands to leave - she'd been discussing
the earnest problem of nuke-you-lahr power
and the evil republicans, but those pants look
fucking sexy over those legs, so I'll forgive
her, and she stops to watch the guitarist one
last time as he sways to his music, forward
as the unending scale drops, leaning back
as it rises, the sour smell of espresso -
why the hell does it smell like that? and
the band has started a new song, I'm sure
it'll get old, but I like it right now, and
when I hold my head just right, the ink
glistens as it flows from my pen, and I'm
sure it's sorry for exploding in my backpack
while I biked here, down the path, the sound
of water and the hum of tires, the
tictictictictictictictictictictictictictictictictictic
while I rest, the grate of chain on derailer -
remember to fix that, you've meant to for
months, it's one of the last tangible reminders
of her, she gave me that bike, I fucking
love that bike, and I could call her, but
leaving home was hard enough, and I'm sure
she's found someone else, or will soon, and
she'll probably kiss him too, but
that bike is perfect, except for the chain,
but that's not her fault, it's your fault for not
fixing it yet, and the band has stopped playing,
I'm not sure if I got tired of the song,
but it was long, and they dimmed the lights
while it was playing, now the ink doesn't
shine like it did before, but I know my
pen didn't mean to leak, because now
it's writing beautifully, it's trying so hard,
and it's okay anyway that I have ink all over
my fingers, because now I have something
in common with both pen and paper,
and the black on my hands matches the
dark streaks running through the fake copper
table top and the spot where the veneer has
faded away to show the rubber rim edging
the round, and it's good to feel connected to
something again, the table is a perfect size,
my tea sitting close, some books set
in front, I'm not sure if I brought them
to read, to look cool, or to protect against
a lazy mind and tired fingers, the coffee's run
low, and the grinder drowns out everything
in a satisfying whir, a useful squeal, and
now it's stopping, and I think the band is
still playing the same stand up bass line
that saunters through every smooth jazz quartet
and I think some dude with pigtails is
discussing the earnest problem of antibiotic -
resistant mutations, while some short-hair
blonde chick sips a whipped-cream coffee and
looks bored, and why the hell do I smell chili? it
smells delicious, and I want some chili, and
I can't seem to write chili without writing
the hili first, then coming back to write the
c, and I can't hear the band anymore, my
breath is playing too loud, and I can feel
my heart thumping slowly, my handwriting
is still small, but it's getting clearer, and
I think my pen wants to rest, it's getting tired,
and I want to sit for a moment
and listen to myself breathe.