I can still smell that moment,
waft of patchouli, so wanna-be hippy.
Walking up the dark hallway,
so glad to be nearing you.
I caress the blanched wood of your door,
each one the same: industrial, sparse.
Then I turn the cold handle, and smile;
it's unlocked, as always when you know I'm coming.
The light and warmth and incense and music
flood my face and quicken my pulse with delight
as I push open the door and cross
into the comfort of your room and your company.
There you are at your computer,
chestnut ringlets tousled, wearing your sleep shorts.
Your hazel eyes flash and your body clenches
as I pass the threshold into your chamber.
My cheery "Hey, you!" dies on my lips,
as I look past you to your bed.
I don't know who he is, shirtless and languid,
dangerously at ease between your familiar sheets.
"I didn't think you were coming 'til ten," you stammer.
You cringe when your watch beeps; the hour just changed.
I turn back to the dim hallway, the stark steel staircase,
down and out into the brittle December night.
Under your window, out on the street,
I let my — your — hemp bracelet fall from my wrist
with a plop and a ripple,
into the brackish, half-frozen gutter.
As it floats through the grate, I pull out a smoke,
and spark it with a blinding flash
(my first one that night; you detested the smell),
sucking the heat and filth deep into my chest.
I exhale with a sigh,
then drop my smoke in after it.
— Matt Testa-Wojteczko
I met Matt at the Spot Coffee open mic this Monday. I thought
he was joking when said he'd only been writing poems for 4
weeks! The 4 weeks were a course from Dan Donaghy he'd just
completed. Keep up the great work Matt!
Wednesday, July 14, 2004