tongue in cheek, with nothing to say

jeezus, my life is boring.

i just realized this recently,
and even though
there are worse things
that a man could
complain about—
and i really should
count my blessings—
things are still just as dull
as a worn-down pencil.

my fellow poets
spend their time
hanging out in bars,
painting the canvas of night
with colorful conversation
and the hue of ice-cold brew,
feasting their eyes
on the occasional
eye-popping female.

while i sit alone,
painting monotony
in black and white,
getting eyestrain
before a mute computer.

at Jack’s Private Lounge,
there’s always at least two of us
with nothing to say—

not that i’m complaining.

© 2005 by Jack T. Marlowe, 3-23-05