It just so happens that I gather emptiness in my shirt pocket
and run like I have things to do or I’m chased by some
illusion, emptiness might exchange greetings with me and then we
part ways at the first line of a new poem, I leave it searching
for vacant seats in sad hearts, for a flock of woe flowing from
a flute just breaking its fast. It blesses the meager half of our
plate with its fulsome half. My emptiness is an old man expelled
from the mercy of the poor and of the alleys, sculpting time
for a drink of water, and I sculpt my mirage out of language
and brag. Come, sit with me, you old rascal, there’s nothing
doing, we’re so annoyingly alike, to the point of utter tedium.