Other Days

I have a habit of reading my older work. While I often find it flawed and badly in need of a rewrite, I sometimes find myself in a particular mood and certain pieces strike me. It tops the list of reasons why I keep and read older work. Finding something new, or even finding an old emotion, makes it worth while. Here are two that vibrated a few strings this morning.



Opening dinner with dirty plates,

milk filled glasses rest

contented on slanted edges,

counting upwards we get to twenty


before taking a breath. Chairs

linking chairs, contemplate conformity,

no reason beyond just thinking.

I’m welcome to pretend standing


next to you is enough. Scent of

almost sex, almost faking it,

nearly lost in useless smiling.

Cooking for the pleasure


of watching you wonder whether

tasting is enough in every instance,

or at least this one. You will be here,

tattering paper towels for penance,


sheltering feelings with bouncing

eyes better fit for gaping, as if

you deserve this permanent souvenir

of just how pathetic we both are.


Pale Blue

Crammed in

with three more white chairs,

something subtle,

loud, mumbling

from a speaker

behind us.

Sharing a paper

cup and too sweet to remember

why you ever stopped to begin with


then remembering.

Voiceless, still,

then catching up,

I glimpse in you,

turned up sheets

and torn jeans.

Even tones juxtaposed, syncopated alliteration

in every sentence


slipping from restrained lips.

I am more than this stale coffee,

more than bakery goods

left gentle on the plates for the over-eager

to rummage through, the line stretching

past our over-crowded table.


Always more in the glance down

than anyone lets on.


You too are blue with me,

this one day,

powdered and purring.


About Ryan Carty

There are some who call me, Tim?

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