She need only bat an eyelash
And you follow like a toy duck
On a short string.
The bubbly blonde bitch owns you,
Doesn’t she?
And who am I? Nothing.
The lover of your dreams is right there
At the bar,
On the bar,
In a tall, cool, slick glass,
Beckoning.
I could dress, talk, strut my best…
What would it amount to
Next to the least conscious gesture
Of her dribbling gold?
Nothing.
Nothing,
Next to an inanimate pint of rotted wheat.
I am nothing
And you ask if I’m ok.
Fine.
How can I be anything but fine?
What can I be?
You’ve proven I’m nothing.
You’ll prove it again
Every other night
Religiously.
How dare you ask how I am?
How can Nothing be?
What would it matter?
Whatever I say will soon be forgotten
In the arms of your amber-fermented love.