spectator sport By Chris Dean

I watch the butts pile in the ashtray,

one, two…three.

I should quit. Again.

But I lie to myself about the when.

I lie to myself a lot.

It's a hobby. A national pastime.

A goddamned spectator sport.

I tell myself I'm gonna do better today,

less anger, less self pity.

I'll laugh more and be productive.

But my softening body knows the truth,

that I'll sit on the couch,

pretend to drink herbal tea

that will turn cold as stone in its cup

and stare at an empty screen

hoping the empty has transference.

I'll talk to the creaking floorboards 

as I move back and forth 

between kitchen and couch,

I'll hold conversations with sleeping cats

and I'll argue with the damn flies

that buzz through screenless windows

I refuse to close.

I'll make up stories for them

that I won't write down

and pretend I'm creating greatness.

Then, exhausted from my hectic day,

I'll curl up with something

stronger than myself,

light another smoke

and make mental lists of ways

I'll avoid facing life again tomorrow.

Chris Dean is a storyteller, spoken word artist and self-proclaimed Magpie Poet who writes from the heart of Indiana where they live with their husband, dog and too many cats to mention. 

Their work has been featured online, in multiple print anthologies and they are the author of two books of poetry, Tales From a Broken Girl and We're All Stories in the End, published by Storeylines Press.