After I Knew It All.

The brave face
cracks under the strain
of being gracious
when yet another
pretty girl wanders by
in a dress made of breeze.

What I summon isn't
courage or good manners,
what you see
is cold sweat suppressed
and turned into the foul iron
that runs through the veins.

Should I smile
or going about my business
looking at my watch
as though I am late
for something that awaits.

You were always late for something
arranged weeks in advance,
my scalp
still has the scars of me
scratching my head for hours and months,
wondering where
you were.

I take a photo and change the landscape,
I write a poem and configure impossible probability,
I take my harmonica solos to a blues known only on obscure moons,
all my essays about what I was taught
and what I learned
after I knew it all.