I see you behind me
sitting in the corner booth
looking prim and flawless
with that air of expectance
on your face, wishing
I would acknowledge you.
You bother me.

You and all your useless
reminders of what I missed
the first time around.
What good are they now?

I’ve already made these
egregious mistakes and
your self-satisfied expression
teaches me nothing but that
even learned lessons are
cruelly distributed.

If you had shown up
in front of me, on the path
to ruin, believe me when I say
I would have been glad
for the wisdom you offer—
even though you claim
to have tried to speak to me,
but I did not hear; to guide me,
but I did not see.

You nervously adjust
your pristine white gloves
and say you can’t help it
if you’re right every time.
You shake your head and
proclaim it a futile endeavor;
that I never see you
until the smoke clears
and it’s all over.

Claire Juno, © 2015