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Reading Rimbaud
- that guy must have been fun at parties - ,
I wonder if he’d lead all the culture experts
or if he’d deplore them
leaning against countertops in the kitchen
debating music and books and movies
a glass of dry wine feeding a foamed mouth
the cigarette smoke expelled with force
to accentuate statements found preposterous
Tell me, Arthur
were you talking to all the ladies, not yet shaving
using your broad vocabulary
to wet the bloomers beneath those skirts,
I don’t know, maybe not,
they say women weren’t exactly your cup of golden lilies
something tells me, Art,
if I know you like I think I do,
you were the guy in the corner
getting as drunk as possible
on all the free booze that was
never quite good enough for you
berating everyone in your head
dreading someone sitting next to you,
counting the moments until finally
insulting someone and
storming out the door into the street
cursing to the night’s closed lips
grabbing for a cigarette no matches found until I
handed you one and smiled.
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