Main Street Solipsism

Like a fixture, or a stamp

there every night in your usual posture

fingers gripping the beer just right

white pharmaceutical teeth in mute

and a practiced grin, you’re there

for the ladies and the warm of the room

pressed cotton button up in a

non-offensive color, relaxed jeans bought

folded off the shelf in Wal-Mart

hugs for everyone, welcome them into

your scent cloud, manufactured for this moment

it’s all high-fives and knuckle pounds

and maybe a little guitar when the time is right

because you’re here for the ladies

the same three or four, rotating like

Pisces or Leo or Gemini between bedrooms

and apartment building trysts when

the husband is away;

Every year, your hair becomes more gray

every year, your joints hurt a little more

every year, you wonder when you’ll start

losing your marbles or your dick

but you pretend not to care, you have

your place by the bar

you’re there for the ladies, you’ve worn

a groove in the concrete with

your patterned walk;

As a solipsist, I know I exist

but I’m beginning to have my doubts

about you