I too would sit naked watching movies
endlessly, obsessing over one stray
stitch of Jane Russell’s blouse, but I
don’t have that kind of scratch.
Howard, we both know the difference
between eccentric and fucking nuts lies
somewhere near the check book and your
stock options, the vast controlling shares,
the ability to make problems go away
with the wave of a germ-free hand,
an air of debonair righteousness, a thin
mustache and a closet of tailored suits.
I have none of that, except for the need
to sit alone in the dark, focusing on one
detail invisible to everyone else, making
that one fault the heart of my existence.
John Findura is the author of the poetry collection Submerged (ELJ, 2018). He holds an MFA from The New School as well as a degree in psychotherapy. His poetry and criticism appear in numerous journals including Verse; Fourteen Hills; Copper Nickel; Pleiades; Forklift, Ohio; Sixth Finch; Prelude; and Rain Taxi. A guest blogger for The Best American Poetry, he lives in Northern New Jersey with his wife and daughters.