I’m supposed to be a poet
Nokyoung Xayasane

I should probably write something.
I’m supposed to be a poet.
What should I use to conjure up
these emotions, these images?
Past betrayals?
Yesterday’s grievances?
No one wants a poem
about sunshine and rainbows.
They want a narrative,
a struggle,
they want to vicariously
live in your pain and in your triumph.
That’s the human condition:
to have your lives mirrored
back to you,
to elevate the mundane and the boring
to a place of dignity,
dignity of the despicable.

But all I have now
are my daily routines.
I go out to brunch
and no woman stands
hidden in the background
just out of view,
ready to throw a drink
in my face.

I go out for coffee
and no one reveals to me
how they’ve been having an affair
with my now former friend.
Were we really friends anyways?
I always disliked her
and now I have a good reason.
Sometimes I get upset
when I hear about
tragedies and wars overseas,
but I know I’m pushing it.

I’ll return back to my book of poems
to a past rife with grief
and drunken nights
running around the city
seeking something I had lost.
I’ll return back to those images
of crying on the kitchen floor
with the ceiling fan turning
in slow motion overhead,
but even I know
as I sit with my tea
in the early morning sunshine,
that material is now rather old.