Perhaps in a Cafe


Perhaps in a cafe in Rome

I will suddenly be a ‘Romantic’

swept up in black coffee

and cigarettes

like glamorous women

on old movie screens


Perhaps in a cafe in Rome

I can willingly choose to be ‘me’

as though I was only a ‘look’

a ‘face’

waiting to be found

beneath the mirage of so many places

that have graced this skin

since I first glanced at a magazine


Perhaps in a cafe at home

on some ordinary street

I’ll accept my fate with grace

and leave no concern

for pictures

or an age

stamped upon my bones

like a countdown clock

reeling me in

strangers in a sea of cameras


the world has made us strangers

lips without lipstick

and I am without a name


what will they call me when my life is spent?

when I am buried

or worse


cast out into the wind


for there are no mirrors beyond the time of death

no facebook

no instagram


the earth cannot validate this mind

that cries out for a compliment 


the wind cannot caress this face

when all I am is ash


Some stories were never meant for soft tones

on moist lips

some are made for blistered throats

and calloused feet

that have walked too long

in the world you own

and call our home


our legs carry the ache

of too much shaping

molded and folded

to fit into your pocket

let out when you needed a blow


like a tissue

we are delicate

thinned out


creatures cast out into the wind

searching for a surface

to take us in


this is a story so loud it cracks bones

and leaves lips a bloody mess


it is a story of how

we always try out best

to be you wife

your mother

your daughter

and your friend


your dirty little minx

cracking whips to no end….