Dylan Mitchell

In The Dark Café

It grows cold out there.
But I didn’t call, I didn’t call
before I ran away from home.
The large hot tea is sweet and good.
I’ve finished my cake, but hunger
for something more. Young people
smile and smoke, and remind me
I am getting old. Too
old for the insane games
he forced me to play at home.
The small voice inside saying:
be careful be careful.
(He watches my window, and
wants me to know. Five days
in a row, shrill messages at dawn,
until I took the phone off the hook.
Now notes on my door. Red
rage bleeding on every page.)

It seems so much saner here.
Two skeletons play chess.
A homeless girl reads The Catcher In The Rye.
The hot waiter dances,
like a young Travolta.
I glance at a poet and become calm and bold
(he counts his long fingers after every line).
I remember a sonnet I wrote in school:
A disconnected phone can’t make you cringe,
and better locks may keep you safe inside.
Because you failed to give back love to love –
the angry ravens watch you from above.
I am far far from home.
I’ve come to this place to think and mend.
These smiling strangers are my only friends.
My stalker’s at home.
It grows colder outside.
I write this poem instead.

Dylan Mitchell's poems have appeared in numerous journals and magazines. His most recent book is, 100 Men I Have Slept With (And Other Poems). It is available on Amazon.com. Several of his poems, essays, and book reviews can be had for free online: www.roughpoet.blogspot.com. He lives alone in Portland, Oregon.

1 comment:

The views and opinions expressed throughout belong to the individual artists and may or may not coincide with those of the other artists (or editors) represented within the magazine. Hobo Camp Review supports a free-for-all atmosphere of artistic expression, so enjoy the poetry, fiction, opinions, and artwork within, read with an open mind, and comment wisely. Thanks for stopping by the Camp!