ache, that my nights aren't restless, that a dream
didn't fade. I'm not wailing, more like sighing. Isn't
that a softer grief, appropriate in scale? It seems
preposterous to say, I wish your loving me
would've lasted longer, had been more than passing
fancy, that our romance hadn't ended with me
getting dumped for that beauty from central casting:
Younger, taller, smarter, with a full set of teeth.
As for me, I’m losing hair and height and brain cells.
I've had a tooth pulled, deadening nerves underneath.
I'll pretend, age is a number. Oh sheesh. Oh well.
I guess in a weird way I gave what I thought was my best,
only to discover what I thought was best was less.
Drew Pisarra's poetry really kicked into gear with his discovery of the work of filmmaker R.W. Fassbinder. Since then, he's been writing poems for every movie that the German director ever made. His book of short stories, "Publick Spanking," was published by Future Tense a number of years ago.