He was 38 and
had just been
kicked out of
the bar.
He was quite
drunk and sat
on his old sofa
drinking more.
It was 12:30AM
and he thought
about going to
the brothel.
Emily would be
there.
He had been
single for years.
Sometimes the
loneliness was
so great, he
wondered why
he even went
on with things.
Emily was always
good to him at
the brothel, but
never answered
his phone calls.
When he saw
her next, she
always had a
reasonable
sounding excuse:
to him anyway.
He decided he
would have a
couple more
drinks, then go
to the brothel.
He felt tired and
the whiskey
really burned his
stomach.
He hadn’t written
a poem for months,
and honestly didn’t
care: “What was the
point really?” he
thought.
There had been a
time when the
word meant
everything to
him.
Nothing was more
important than
the next line,
and nothing felt
better.
He had grown tired
of that though. All
he ever seemed to
get was form-rejections
and bad jobs, that
took too much time
and energy.
He wondered why
he kept going on.
He heard a loud crash.
He recognised the sound.
It was the garbage truck.
He must have fallen
asleep. He opened the
blinds. The sun was out.
His stomach was on
fire and he had no
interest in eating.
He splashed some water
on his face and headed
to the park next to
his building.
He sat on the same chair
as always. Shook his
head in complete
disgust.
He noticed someone
painting. He’d never
seen anyone painting
there before. “Nice to
see,” he thought.
He looked closer. Was
momentarily stunned.
The painter looked like
Vincent van Gogh.
“You really are fucked up!”
he thought, and looked
at the ground on the
verge of tears.
“Looks like we are the
only ones here,” he heard
from the next seat, and
looked up.
It was the painter. “The
light on that tree is perfect.
I wish I could get it right,”
he said.
“You look just like Vincent
van Gogh.”
“I get that a lot. You
paint?”
“No. I used to write.”
“Used to?”
“I think I am done
with it.”
“I once knew someone
like that. He was wrong.”
“It’s not hard in this
world.”
“You’re right there.”
“Big night?”
“Disappointing night.”
“I hear you.”
“Life is so difficult.”
“You got that right.”
“You look so peaceful.”
“I am now.”
“You weren’t?”
“For the longest time.
Then…”
“What?”
“Then I learned to trust
that.”
“What? Art.”
“Correct! I have to go. So
much to do. It was nice
meeting you.”
“You too. I am Robert.”
“You already know my
name friend.”
Robert heard a loud crash.
It was the garbage truck
again. He was on his sofa.
It was a dream: all just a
dream.
He thought about Van Gogh.
He had outlasted him: or
had he?
He stood up. Poured a glass
of water. Drank it. Found
his notepad. Opened the
blinds. Put on some music.
And got to work.
Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry of his has appeared in New York Quarterly, North Dakota Quarterly, Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, Naugatuck River Review, Heavy Feather Review and Nerve Cowboy. He has two full length collections available from Epic Rites Press. brentonbooth.weebly.com
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