The End of the Tour

Pulls out of driveway
still looking with the mouth of blue eyes
and the lake of loneliness after the applause had ended
and the desire of the lifestyle had subsided
is still beautiful
for a writer
in face of another.

How agape is a researcher?
Fries slip through, pop, dogs, pills, poop:
a betsy by a television
and still a simplicity that cannot be apprehended
and is thereby brilliant.
Because it dances and perspires
and a bandana keeps it together.

Rub cold hands and say goodnight
before a hotel room of reflection
beyond the red light of recording:
can we be like the others?
Open books before greatness
seeped in.

Commerce and creativity
intermingle without
interruption in a midwestern glassiness
at the end of a road
before the woods came forth
and it diverged.

Clicks on a runway in an interview
you agreed to, a good guy
and a good guy: no heroes,
no heroin, a conversation of not many
turns but just interest
before the writing.

The lake of loneliness we write of
as a loneliness and walk through
without kids and the marriage we don’t yet
fathom, freezes over, and the ripples
of renown, the print on the page,
the audience of yes nos,
knows not the spaces, between the words,
encircling the glances.

the end of the tour_mehtacritic