Jon Hilgers prefers to remain relatively anonymous.
There is something about him that isn't,
something that turns in his dead-on stare,
a part when he talks that folds inward. He smiles
small smiles, drinking coffee he hasn't yet paid for
and eyeing the doughnuts with salivating pleasure.
His happy perusal is not a sign of unbalance, or even
a measure of hunger-- it is rather the mark
of something large having become something small,
of inconspicuous boredom... of Elvis
looking like he wasn't there.
On a Night of Dinner, Wine and Sex
A new pair of Doc Martens does not mean
I'm hip; or that now I listen to punk;
dinner, then white wine and sex does not mean
I'm in love, or even (worse) that I've sunk
to depths of guiltless promiscuity.
I am not fast defined by moment-spurred
impulses, and still, intuitively,
I can sense my identity has blurred.
What do I call these new affectations?
That word is too weak, implying that they
will pass without effect, publications
browsed, paper used and then thrown away.
These might stay: sweet white wine, dinners for two
and sleepless nights will now be worn like shoes.