So, this is September.
I woke up with a hangover,
had an untidy shave
and a late shower.
The breakfast went cold
with apprehension
but my coffee was frightfully hot.

I am supposed to read poetry
before you, all this afternoon.
This word, I do not quite like,
afternoon.
It reminds me of
all that I do not want to be reminded of.

For I believe it was an afternoon
when she walked out of our lives,
leaving me to savor our dinner
alone, like a heartless something.
And this word, too, heartless.
It is so meaningless
that I do not want to be reminded of
its meaninglessness.

So, this is September.
And I have read
my lonely poetry
before each of your lonely eyes
like nothingness.