We’re all sitting in the bookstore, never buying.
Wanting to taste the tea they sell, but never trying.
We fight so hard to be unchanged
by the convictions of others, but we are not the same.
What they really want us to have they don’t sell.
Fluorescent lights and small seats,
I will meet you between the sheets
Maybe of paper, maybe cloth
since you seem like you are lost.
Maybe I could find you if I tried.
Tomorrow morning, will you love me?
Will there be someone above me?
Will you fight to recall my name?
What else can you not retain?
I didn’t know that I was just a game.
Maybe I will cook for you
or is there some place to get to?
I can make you something quick
like oatmeal that will stick
to your bones; you are so thin.
So now, what is left to say?
Paraphrase Edna Saint Vincent Millay:
‘Are you warmed a little, though far from warm?’
Have I done more good than harm?
I don’t want to be one more mistake to you.