I know you know

I have deserted the poet
of my imagination
I’m taking notes on what’s to be done next
I read Dostoevsky
I’m on page seventy seven
and my hair has already become tame
I cry more
and write less
I see myself
in every cafe
Sitting alone
looking at sports cars
and dreaming of money
What I promised to myself
I cross out
At the crossroads of big cities
I find my way
with help from repressed memories
and a map
made for the idiots of my kind
At each day’s end
along the broad boulevards
I speak
the names I will commit to oblivion
all for the sake of her chopped off hair