Cleopatra worked at my café.
Gradually she added paint to her face
And became more beautiful every day,
She got more beautiful every time I visited the place,
Which was often, because I liked the change in her,
As I did my writing—the days, the poems, a blur.
We are bored, so bored—we have to fill up the days
With meaning—that’s difficult, but we have to find the ways.
Meaning always means a challenge, the labor and stress
Of having children, a respectable job, a job with consequences.
Cleopatra was on her feet all day. I couldn’t have cared less.
She wasn’t Cleopatra, but I convinced myself she was.
Idiot dreams! Vanity! But that’s what Cleopatra does.