Gentleman Magpie
A Poem
The grown-up world
A joke, mostly
Especially when you’re staring at a mirror, and what you see’s not much
He said he saw her like some kind of shining, impossible thing
While he was a spilled ashtray, smelling of cheap whiskey, weed, and regret
Her expectations? Towers made of sand
His efforts? Like the scent of a crowded elevator, noticed, but barely and quickly forgotten
He called his faults “character”, like an addict’s excuse
Her needs? A weight, like hauling a sack of concrete up a broken ladder
He’d leave promises like empty bottles in the alley
Then wonder why she stopped looking for them
Her need for truth? A pain in the ass, such a nag
Like a fly buzzing around your ear when you’re trying to sleep
Little lies, like stains on a bar napkin
She knew she wasn’t the only one, a blow to the gut, worse than any hangover
He’d disappear with a story and a dirty glance
Her trust? A broken window, letting in the cold
He was a magpie, a miserable, two-bit bastard
Always drawn to the shine, like a loser to a slot machine
Not for cash or flash, but for her bright, honest smile
He snatched the good stuff, tucking it into a nest that wasn’t his
Her kindness, a scarf he plucked out of a ditch
Her humor, a bent spoon he saw his warped reflection in
Her integrity, a tarnished penny that was pulled out of a pocket
All shoved into his mess, where the bullshit could pretend to be something real
He struts with borrowed feathers, a pathetic fraud
Flashing her intelligence with a smirk
He parrots her words like a bird in a cage
And wears other’s virtues. Every stupid, ill-fitting piece
He spits out her witty lines, though they taste like shit
A dummy’s voice, empty, knowing nothing
He thought his cheap charm could slide him through another day, another swindle
His own life’s wreckage? Not his fault, no way
The universe is against him
The dog ate his homework
The sky is too blue
His shoelace was untied
A banana peel
A bad roll of the dice
Anything but a rotten core
She was underestimated, a straight shot of whiskey
She won’t crumble into the gutter, while she still knows how to laugh
He thought reflecting her, copying, blurring the lines like an edited photograph
Would fool their hearts and make them blind to the rot
But when the light hits him, sharp, cold, true
His flimsy sparkle is just a layer of ash
Now he stumbles on the warped pavement
Wondering how she could walk out the door
From the double-standard of a pathetic bloated clown
Who tripped on his own garbage
And fell into the dark