A Tourist

This sea’s not bad. I have pas mal de mer,
A good-enough emotion, at my core.
I used to care a lot. Not any more:
Most of the time it hurts too much to care.
I’m just a tourist, tramping here and there,
Living on old hopes, calling from the door,
“What do you want that awful tchatchke for?”
Feelings are meaningless. Love is a snare.

I’m slipping through the world, travelling light,
Don’t need protection from the hail and rain
Because the water doesn’t leave a stain.
Nightmares? Headaches? I’ve given up the fight.
Contempt is all that lets me sleep at night,
Braced by twin crowns: disinterest and disdain.