I used to watch this movie on repeat.
It was easy to love lizard-like Michel Poiccard
when I was 23. I had never been almost
pregnant. I hadn’t yet been unfaithful
to a man. I too rejected grief
in favor of nothing.
I sat on an uncomfortable couch
drinking bourbon alone night
after night pretending I was shotgun
in a stolen Ford. Now the easy lure
of cinema makes it simple: I am hunkered
down in mandatory quarantine avoiding
everyone but movie stars.
Jean-Paul Belmondo’s face was so elastic
in 1960. Today he is wrinkled
and tanned from pulling faces
and hand rolling tobacco.
My wrinkles just keep increasing.
I’m 35 and feel 50. I still don’t see
why Patricia called the cops. Are we all trapped
in endless loops? Yes, I’ll take another drink.
How many times am I destined to watch
this movie? Poor, sad little fuck boy
dead on a black and white street, all
he wanted was freedom. How many times
will I write the same poem?