Kris Misevski

It’s hard, just standing around empty handed
I don’t know what to do with my hands
Put them in my pockets, lean against a table,
Scratch my nervous neck and cheeks,
Light a cigarette when I don’t smoke,
Or bite my nails, which is one more
Filthy habit I should break.

What’s worse is trying to explain,
Or make the unsober hand
With that extra bottle before me
Understand why:
Why I’m trying to kick
After so many years of wonderfully
Forgotten memories
Why now give up the fairy tale?

My reasons are my own,
And making sense of them isn’t
What I had in mind
For this night’s social, or the next
It’s been most difficult, indeed
In social corners where they “know me”
The old me, the man with the boyish smile
Who was never too poor to buy a round
Never too tired to say “no” to an invitation.

He’s the one they want back
He’s the one they’re all looking for
When the phone rings
They ask for him
Inquiring what’s wrong
But nothing is, quite the contrary
He is wonderful.

Now is when I miss it most
When I’m sitting down alone to write
And I’ve poured a lovely glass of red wine
I can feel the blood course through my veins
When I take that first sip
My brain springs to life
And the metaphors dance like sonatas
To the tips of my fingers

I’m at ease and bursting all at once
But it’s only in combination
With the birth of words
Take the words away from the glass
And I’m nothing but trouble.

I must be careful however
I can’t get caught up reminiscing
Not when I still have so many battles close to me
I’m sorry, I mean, so many bottles close to me
I can just turn my head slightly to the right
And there they are, waiting patiently in their rack
And patiently they will wait and age gracefully
Much like I would like to.

I suppose the best thing for me,
When in social corners
Is to smile my boyish smile
With my hands rooted deeply in my pockets
Taking them out only to shake hands
And look strangers squarely in the eye.

And should my hand
Ever find its way back to a glass
I’ll make sure it’s resting comfortably
Atop a blank paper or napkin next to a pen
Waiting to give birth to metaphors.