Hopeless

It’s hard to play that game of looking to be seen by the lady at the next table anymore, especially when I can’t see that she would care for me. It’s impossible to pretend anymore that I’m that kind of guy. I let her go without a word. I drink my bitter beer; I write my bitter poem and think I’m not the kind of guy who’s so confident that he can afford the bluff of seeming to be a happy man for a moment’s unhappy pleasure. I’m not the kind of guy who wants that kind of woman, the kind of woman who can get off on someone whom she’s never met before, and I feel, now that I’ve been left alone, now that I need to find another love, now, that is, that my situation is hopeless, that I’m more the kind of guy I am than I’ve ever been.