Eating dinner alone in the greasy spoon.
I listen to the French fries fry.
No secret message in the menu.
The new movement for anti-triteness,
Nostalgia neuralgia, sentimental sediment.
The usual digging in the past.
Wasting the edge of my mind
Pushing down my foot
On the grey mush shovel.
Taking on the nutritional fuel load
Takes my heart and my stomach
Down and downer. Simple memory.
I try not to think about you. I try.
And then the shape of every lie I spoke
To your eyes reaches in and grabs my throat.
It is all simple and quiet. Each second
Followed by a look back and up. Love
And after love.