Peace
Amy Anderson
I was sitting on the curb
when he caught me starring.
He flashed me
an absent-minded peace sign
with his free left hand.
I remember his slender fingers
and well chewed nails
that barely cleared his sleeve.
And the smile that he tendered
offered me acceptance
as one of his own.
I imagined.
I imagined him to be an artist,
a painter.
He talks critique talk
and is having difficulty
separating himself from his work.
He is talented and lazy
and will never create anything real
He does the coffee house crawl
on weekends and has dropped acid
at several Saturday night parties.
He recycles and eats no red meat
and talks down to his mother
on the phone when asking for cash.
He is saving up to go to Spain
and gets angry when people,
especially elderly women,
mistake him for a girl.
He cherishes his radical gay friends,
writes in nothing but lower case
and reads the steamy love scene
in his used book store novel twice.
And I turn my eyes away from him
knowing
he has no peace to offer.
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