Without

I go out from time to time
knowing that I will not see you
leaned at the bar,
browsing songs on the jukebox,
or outside having a smoke
and simple conversations.
Thanks to mobile phones
I may hear from you—
God-willing there is good service—
as if satellites play a significant role
in the night’s direction.

I visit the men’s room to have a chat
and with no one around,
I attempt to rationalize with my reflection
in the mirror in front of the urinals.
I realize it all becomes useless—
my dry-cleaned button-downs,
my matching brown shoes and belt,
even that more-white-than-blue striped
J-Crew shirt you bought me.

You know the one:
“It’s supposed to be wrinkled.”
Yes, that one.
I like it a lot by the way.

But it’s wasted,
unnecessary,
like each spray of Burberry cologne.
Although I love the fragrance,
it is worthless as my Pure Sport deodorant,
and my crew-neck t-shirts
that hug my body
and appear pressed
when I’m without you.