By: Riaan van Zyl

on a Wednesday night
just before the remnants
of the old man,
in this case the addict,
will spend my poor money
on yet more Jazz records,
and just after
I drank a coffee,
that was way too late in the day
and will probably have me roll around
in sleepless existential agony,

anyway,
as I sit here
inside on a white plastic chair
staring through a small window in the door
waiting
for a rare blue moon
(whatever that might be)

I allow myself
To steal a tender thought about you
like the last vibration of a piano key
played by the great Mr Jarret.

I am not even going to mention your name again,
Girl-from-the-12-step-meeting,
I fear I would make it weird
And there is also the God and Catholic thing,
but anyhow
you have the softest eyes
and whenever you speak
I glance at you and think
how I would like to hold and protect you
or something else that is innocent
and that I long for
but fear to name

and anyway,
Ping Ping Ting Ping Pang Ping Pong Pong
played Mr Jarret
while the silences came faster and faster like a beautiful symphony of anxiety