breakfast with rimbaud

i guess it was superficial to look up your photo on the internet,
to see what you look like now,
but it was no different than my breakfast.
i didn’t eat. I injected coffee,
looking for a fix,
looking for you
and you weren’t there,
and the coffee didn’t do much either,
so i grabbed rimbaud’s “season of hell” and read a few pages and didn’t understand a damn thing, but knowing nothing smarted me, it had me feeling like a big loser, a nobody, an ignoramus, and oh so ordinary, so then i said fuck it and put the book down and downed the rest of my coffee and walked around new neighborhoods i’d never seen before and heard whistles and car honks and catcalls and “how are you my beautiful stranger?” in private bus cabins and when i arrived back home which has cobwebs and no guest room, i didn’t feel the need to read more Rimbaud…instead i thought about my upstairs neighbor. He’s retired like Rimbaud and plays tennis and i want that life too and so maybe i’ll ask him if he wants to play tennis and we can play and take a beer at Lefty’s Saloon after we play and then who knows, life might seem ok again for us in what suddenly seemed to be not Rimbaud’s “season of hell.”