Fists balled in anger, soul sad and fed-up,
yet ever hopeful that his carefully balanced cup
stays half full for the days he knows to surely come
will be worse than this one.
So he drinks a toast to life still here, full and bright.
Dances with a half drunk girl
he’ll never know,
as he smiles at himself for the kiss he stole.
Then goes home to his empty home;
unless you count his cat Jack
with the biggest eyes you’ve ever
seen for him.
Oh what a wayward lover he is.
Yet, all it ever does, is make him wish
that a girl would look at him that same way.
He is ever hopeful
for he’s built that way,
he’s always been
since he was a small, wee
even as it all crumbles away.
by Philip Wardlow 2017