by Stephen Clark Okawa
when his women abandon him, he casually lights a cigarette,
inhales, shrugs off his momentary loss, and prophesizes:
“eh, there’ll be others; and when they leave, more will come, go;
and one day they will also stop, friend.
until then, we do it again, and again.”
he takes another drag, sigh, blow,
says, “but brother…each one hurts
worse than the last…
yet, i’d take each back;
i’d jump at the chance to fuck it up all the same.
it’s better than perfecting my loneliness.”