Vanity
I suppose
that’s what it must be,
to assume that I would have
chapbooks out my ears by now.
to assume that the girls who come
will want to stick around a dirty apartment
just because I am there.
to assume that a face full of scars
(I fell down in paris)
would make me seem distinguished
instead of just looking
like a falling down drunkard.
to assume that anything I say
is worth
being heard by anyone.
did you ever see that picture? this lady
looking in a mirror
but the face you see in the mirror
is hers
and they call it vanity
but don’t understand;
in the picture
she’s looking straight out
at the people
admiring her ass
and
knowing it or not
rating themselves against it
“do I have it/could I get it”. vanity;
what everyone is doing
if they are human
and god bless them
even when they think
(money to beggars, fingers through the hair)
they are doing something else.
DS Maolalai has been nominated for Best of the Web and twice for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden (Encircle Press, 2016) and Sad Havoc Among the Birds (Turas Press, 2019)