John Tustin - One Poem

Burnt at the Edges

Drinking alone in my basement room,

Burping up the remnants of Friday’s spaghetti in butter sauce,

And you’re twenty miles away,
Getting fingerfucked by someone who doesn’t have
My subtlety, my passion,
Or my love for you.

Or my arrogance.

I wish I was young,
Young and green and blue and thin again,
Vomiting from the second floor window
Into the dumpster below
And dreaming the same dreams I dream now,
Only without the tinge of hopelessness,
The twinkles of regret, burnt at the edges.

I was once so young and thin and oblivious,
Almost pretty (except for the nose).
The days became years and I decayed, I rusted,
I sat pliant in sparsely furnished rooms,
A statue before the television and the stereo,
Surrounded by unpainted walls, empty containers,
Alone, always alone.

The kids didn’t call again tonight.
Sheba didn’t call.
Jessica didn’t call.
You don’t even have my number.

I stare vacant into a single bare light bulb,
My eyes burning and desperate,
And pray that you are truly loved
By someone that deserves you,

Like I don’t.



John Tustin is the divorced father of two perfect children. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry is his link.