an old poem found in a forgotten journal circa 1997

a muse displaced but not forgotten

walking down the late night street
his form is still familiar
after a beer with the boys,
darts, pinball, a video game or two

he laughs
does not care
that I have poetry
though nothing more

(at home I write this
cannot help feel my gorge rise
pressing the roof of my throat
threatening to block the passage)

he did not want me or my poetry
and I've been more at a loss
more empty

even now
he as my equal
not worthy

we pass each other
on that back lit street
like gentlemen villains
tipping our heads forward
shading the malice of our hearts
muffling aching yearning waiting
until the last moment
I turn to catch
a stone cold smile of resent