My Smoke & Mirrors

I go out more now,

in the evenings.

There’s no real reason to,

but then

there’s no real reason

to stay in either.

So I go to the pubs,

with my books and pens

and my new clothes

and coins for the jukebox

and other tricks and barricades and disguises.

I don’t even drink,

not properly:

the beer bottle in my hand

is really just another prop.

Trips outside to smoke

break up the nights.

I have nowhere to be

and time to kill.

And I can talk for hours,

to people I don’t care about,

giving away none of myself,

so that I walk away

knowing the exact dimensions

and textures of their lives,

and leave them dully wondering

who I might have been.

I’ve got the detached and enigmatic act

down pat.

It’s a good illusion.

It doesn’t slip,

even when I spot a table and two chairs

in a corner of the bar,

where someone far less guarded than I am

once showed their hand

and gave all of themselves away

without saying a word,

where someone let another

read their entire life

in a single stuttering, breathless pause

between sentences.

Even then, the mask is in place.

And if a certain song

happens to start up on the jukebox,

then well,

I was going outside for a cigarette anyway.