I kinda like the somber, quiet melancholy
the tense nights with no dinner made
“fend for yourself” kinda nights
where I just end up spendin’ money
I don’t really have on some overpriced food
with my best friend; I paid for both of us,
’cause he deserves the world but
all I can manage is a sandwich and a coffee.
Then I come home to
an empty house full of people,
and I don’t wanna romanticize the pain,
the ache, the lonesome feelin’, the trauma behind
“fend for yourself” nights
but I’m a poet, and
my soul’s stuck in a starchy piece of paper so
ain’t that my job?
I got a lotta jobs:
first off, I’m a writer, then I’m a waitress,
but I’m a teacher too, and I gotta help the littles
through these “fend for yourself” nights
that don’t hold any beauty in their eyes—
just hunger, and sadness, and confusion.
They’ll get the nuance, and the
admiration later,
surely. But sometimes these nights
carry into mornings, then afternoons,
and it’s real hard to smile while
handin’ folks their pork, or maybe brisket if they’re
top dollar, while the worry’s runnin’ thick through
your brain, and down your spine,
and poolin’ in your gut.
But just when it’s
gettin’ too much to bear, you’ll come home
to some home-cooked salmon wrapped all up
in aluminum foil on a paper plate in the fridge.
So the somber weight
will dissipate, and it’s all worth it
’cause you’re home.