by John Grey
The last woman I will ever love
is a stranger who
peers out the window of a commuter train,
blue eyes, blonde hair,
looking so far beyond me,
I’m not even in the frame.
Shots of tequila, bites of lemon,
remind me this is the last drink.
My politics are done for.
That last anti-neo-Nazi rally
damaged my throat from yelling,
ruined these wrists from ever holding up
a placard again.
And it’s time to put away the books.
I read ’The Trial” for the third time
and was bitterly disappointed this go around.
Kafka’s just not as Kafka-esque as I remember.
The last party I will ever attend
doesn’t even invite me.
No more plane flights.
The last one made a point of landing some place.
Scenery repeats so why bother.
Movies regurgitate the three or four plots
I’ve seen ten thousand times.
Family are still family and it serves them right.
I just thought of something…
that’s it for thinking.
It’s all coming to an end.
I will never say that again.