there’s this guy I run into all the time
I never stick around long enough to learn his name
or much else about him, but of course he’s asked me mine
about four times already —
and each time I tell him a different name…
give up already, dude
but, yeah, all the time I see this guy
but his appearances are particularly prevalent
when I stop at the lobby of my apartment complex
to get coffee
it’s almost as if he tracks my coffee patterns
and times his awkward appearances on purpose
to coincide with my habits —
I look around to see if anyone’s near the machine
and BAM he just pops out of nowhere
and every time he asks me a different personal question —
never anything interesting or profound — just boring shit like
where do you work, do you go to school, do you have kids,
which name are you today, you know… small talk bullshit
that I have no patience for….
and he ALWAYS wants to talk about the stock market —
hey, did you hear the market’s down today? see, that’s why I’m
sweaty and that’s why I’ve been pacing this lobby for 40 minutes
waiting for a stranger to talk to, yeah…sure, pal — I have holes
in my t-shirt and I stop here every day to get free coffee —
do you really think I have money to dump
into the stock market?
but still, he always has something to say about the stocks, like,
oh, it’s raining today, I think I’m gonna sell my twenty shares
of ASS-WIPE — and okay, dude, time to go, have a good one…
he can’t take a hint though, he wants to get to know me better,
I see it in his eyes, I see it in his sweaty-ass face, I know he wants
to be my goddamn boring adult friend, NOOO
I can’t… I can’t…
he doesn’t pay any attention to the fact that I clearly get
uncomfortable when he talks about financial topics because
I’m broke and have no way to relate to his shit and I’m too
ashamed to be like, dude, I’m poor and I don’t talk about that stuff —
he doesn’t pick up on the fact that I never ask him his name and
I’m pretty sure I only ever look at the coffee machine the entire time
he talks to me —
but that’s just how it goes…
I’m not a damn talkative person, I’m an introverted jerk,
I’m aloof and I have a low tolerance for hot air coming out of mouths,
especially mouths attached to heads of people I deem to be
about as flimsy and lame as the cheap cardboard cups they give you
for this free, low-quality apartment coffee…
but what are you gonna do?
the world is full of dudes who want to talk to you about their stocks and
ask you about your four different names…
it’s a good thing I’m not well-known enough to worry about him ever reading this — that is if he can read something other than stocks
Garbage Notes:
I don’t know if this one needs much explanation. But it’s definitely about a real dude, and aside from the satirical hyperbole, this is laid out pretty much like how it used to happen.
What made the whole thing worse was that I used to drink coffee allllllll the time, and I could not go a freakin’ day without seeing this dude. He was always around. He was always hiding around some corner ready to sneak up on me and have some small talk. I was, like, his small talk prey, and he was always fucking starving.
And it’s no exaggeration that he was boring and lame as fuck. Why is it always the people who have the least interesting things to say that seem to always want to talk the most? I will never understand…
The sad thing, which of course stands out to me now, is the sort of social status commentary in this piece—there’s clearly a focus on the fact that this guy isn’t just boring, but he cares a lot about money and is very focused on making more of it—or at least not losing it, right? So there’s a definite marked differential between the low status of the poet and the preoccupation with the high-class wealth of the awkward coffee small talk dude.
And when it comes down to it, really, the poet’s only defense against a world that doesn’t value creative writers, is some kind of diatribe like this. This kind of sharp, sardonic anti-social commentary. What can I say. We do what we can with the weapons we have. And ours is the word. And this was a true example of a poet’s lament.
Thanks to fellow poet Mog Lokson for requesting this one, and to Krystal for echoing the sentiment. If you take a look at some of the other poems in Scuzzbucket, you’ll find more poetry that’s open for request. And not just mine—there are many talented writers who publish there. So if you want me to read or discuss anything special, reach out by email at franco730@gmail.com or leave a note in the comments section.
Franco Amati 2023
Funny story. Me too...I can't stand the aforementioned "boring" and "lame" people who always talk, talk, talk. And yet, I commend them in a weird way (silently to myself) for their courage to blabber on like that :-)
Yes, I remember this poem! I recall feeling so sad for the dude. His existential isolation and cluelessness, yet his attempts to connect w/ the 'poetic' at the same time via you