The harmonium's margin

I am a margin
just as my eyes seem to be
just like a secret life
leaving no traces
behind

Just like the furniture
straight from IKEA
that never quite fits
your
bedroom

Just like the poems
I wrote on your barstools
never seen
spoken
or heard of

just like several missing hours
several strange faces
waking up a whole week later
pretending
it's still the same Sunday
still the same lady
hanging on her man's limp
now hopelessly rusted
shoulder

see her walking towards the market
to finally become
a blonde
to finally please his
nostalgias

and she is a margin
just like my yesterday's
cappuccino
or the closed restaurants' vows
or the way-past-midnight
drunken chorus
of nighttime's blue janitors

just like these streets with no names
strangling out
your verse breath
or workin' ladies
ever pretending the cherry blossom
just to get to your
dollars
just to play your
harmonium