After a long morning spent reading
all about the causes of the French Revolution,
they had promised to meet up outside
to share their light lunch of cheese
and coffee, share any insights
their eyes might have gleaned. Instead,
he wanders into town alone,
buys a pint of beer, sips it by the highway.
Thinks about going in
for confession, before returning
to finish his reading. Guilt
is like that: reading about wars
fought long ago, he realizes
what he's been missing out on. Hopes
she forgives him for his absence, understands
his need to imagine himself at war.
At night, he paces back and forth
the perimeter of his bedroom, smokes
a single cigarette, drinks a bowl of soup
without bothering to taste it. Triumphs
of scale, revolutions of medium.
Before bed, he always likes
to declare war on new countries
in his closet, hoping his empire
can defend itself until morning.
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