hototogisu

cuckoo,
i too sing, spilling thoughts,

it was my last chance to say anything to my chess teacher ,
and i did not. why didn't you do this.
you feel bad because saravuth is displaced, sometimes homeless,
gifted, probably a little crazy, cambodian,
obsessed with james joyce, a father of three,
ruthless at chess, stuck in new york,
negligent, sweet, violent, trampled upon,
traumatized, riddled with shrapnel,
a college graduate, vagrant intellectual,
desperate, lonely, very different, not so much from you—

our conversations fall flat after some time.

each of us has but only one song to sing,
and i am always singing the same song,
but you get tired of hearing this guy's song,
the dirge of pride, trampled upon
because you have no choice but to feel bad when you talk to him,
or you feel bad when you take the long road around union square
just to avoid seeing him
but then,
then,
somehow,
you don't feel bad
you don't feel bad anymore,
and then you start thinking
about something else