The Young Poet

She referred to me as "the young poet."
Indirectly, I suppose, but there was eye contact.
I sank.
Deep into the cup of my chair,
floating on glassy inexperience,
flawlessly punched.
Even my punches are flawfull.

I am a nothing.
Wondering when something comes,
on a bus or a train,
or on the back of a tortoise.
Ridged with grips to cling to
as if the ride wasn't slow.
It can only get slower.

I wait for wrinkled hands that
know their craft and that shake,
as they scrape graphite knowledge on to
blank slate and screwtapes without care.
They know their purpose,
Lived their purpose,
Hell, cramp with purpose.

I dress in tired colors and
paint my eyes dark shades just to
feel more like them.
She, who is writing of this winter's regret and
an ash-sea floor; all he left her.
The boy who knows the reason why men rape
little girls.
I'm not sad enough.