. . .. through the cold iron shove

.  . .. through the cold iron shove
    of a stranger’s winter night, all too familiar.

Pour the heart into a tumbler.
Hot water and whiskey.
Watch already smitten girls
and let it tear you apart
as if it matters a lick in this life.

*    *    *
Jona lusts a night away,
drunk gazes the girls,
got upset because he didn’t get his.
Strokes his ego
in the mirror.
Strokes himself
pretending she’s actually
straddling his waistline,
she’s pressing her breasts against his body,
she’s nibbling his ear,
her hand’s on his leg,
her leg’s are crossed against his,
her foot’s touching his ankle,
she’s going home with him.
Ah, yes,
this is how it was supposed to go tonight.
Not that Jersey horse
haranguing on the empty train,
the only voice to carry three cars
and Jona knows she’s been eyeing him the whole way.
Yet,
there she turns,
shoulder blades to him,
back into Jersey horse’s chest,
and his arms wrap her
and Jona smirks,
because he’s been drinking for the last seven hours.
I don’t give a damn.

He steps off the train,
reaches for his inside pocket,
grabs the pack,
clicks the match,
lights the cigarette,
in a proud display.

    *    *    *
If you were honest with yourself –
but who wants to be? –
you’d know all this doesn’t matter.
But you consider your options:
1) Pretend these feelings are real
and get upset when she won’t reply;
or,
2) Acknowledge that, once,
you had it right and gave it away.

    *    *    *
It’s easier to rush after
bare shoulders
and pouting lips
that blow smoke;
legs that reach stilettos
and into mini skirts.
Ah, the lonesome soul’s a mighty
fool,
so easily manipulated
to think that smile means kindness
those eyes mean purity
those cheeks are warm
those arms are for touching
those hips are for holding
those legs are for wrapping
those lips are for whispers,
those ears are for kisses,
those breasts are for caring,
those shoulders for sleeping.
Such a fool, the lonesome soul;
so naïve and trusting.

Ah, but it must have been right,
right?
So he calls, calls again, and again.
She says,
I’ll contact you,
which means when she’s bored
or upset with her love-boy
or wants a free drink.
Jona knows this,
yet he’s quick to oblige.
A lonely heart takes what it can get
and keeps pretending.

It’s cold outside, Jona
watching lovers walk arm in arm
and their breath drift off
in bursts when they laugh.

He gets lost
in cigarette smoke,
arms clutched to his side,
hands deep in pockets.
His eyes water in the cold wind,
face burns,
lips are chapped
and tear as he peels the cigarette away
leaving blood on the butt.
He licks the sweetness off the wound,
puffs again,
and continues home.. .  .