Pretty Boy

Don't you know somebody writes poems about you?

Hey, pretty boy, don't you know
someone writes poems about you?
When your back is turned, I do.

Something has to be said,
about the way you call light to yourself
and don't know it.

You destroy the quotidian in this rundown cafe,
and, for once, my grin mirrors
the cheesy smiley-face of
breakfast eggs and ketchup.

Have you walked the same twisted streets as I have?
Are the cuffs of your jeans frayed with the same mud?
Did the rain catch you without an umbrella as well?
These I ask myself.

A line between your eyebrows –
a girl you won't ever know wonders
what you think about, worry about, hope about.
Perhaps it is college, and the way you can't afford it –
The girl back home, who unerringly waits for you –
The country and the future, because you see the same horrible things I see –
Or maybe you're just wondering
about your next Facebook status.

Hey, pretty boy, don't you know
someone judges you?
When your back is turned, I do.

End.