'how fucking
trite, cliche, (add in
anything you'd like here) , '
i say, to my
reflection in the
window.
shirtless, alone, cigarette
lit at the tip, and a bottle
of whiskey hangs almost empty in my hand.
'you drink for hours, not because
you like the feeling -
just so you can go and write.'
i look at the bottle, which is now
empty and look at my car. then the keys
on the hook.
'oh! and i'm tired of being
alone, i'd rather not be a poet
anymore. it's just not for me.'
my reflection says casually, 'maybe
love will be like driving.'
and i know i have had too much
to drink.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Pretty darn good, Travis, although you veer periously close to cliche in a couple of ways. The image of a person all alone drinking whiskey and smoking a cigarette is not terribly original. Also, having a conversation with your reflection has been done before. But you pull the whole thing off nicely.