Listen,
you’re going to get used to this feeling.
Every day your chest
will stretch a little tighter
and hot
enough to fry an egg;
your glasses steamed and cleaned
and cleaned again,
the same things seen.
You’re going to get used to this feeling
as you wait in rooms along with tidy women
who look down at their feet,
as you return to nothing
and nothing returns to you,
as your mangy fury
spirals through you
as your body is vaccumed
out, a saved bag of winter clothes,
as the days pass
without evidence.
You’re going to get used to this feeling
as you dream about movies
within movies,
of the hunger
of crocodiles before they were boots,
before rabbits were coats,
as those before you hold court.
You, awake with smoky liquors,
a word or two to spirit the ship
unsaid.
You’re going to get used to this feeling
as your arms swell
and your head swells,as you turn down lemon pie,
as you read and read
and read and read of hunger
as bars gets louder
as patrons mumble more,
as you learn to keep your mouth shut,
to avoid parties,to seek your own good opinion.
Equivocation will burn away,
your shining hunger
all that’s left.
Listen when I tell you: You’re going to get used to it.
