The length of In the Cafe, appearing this week in Slate, would have you think that author Louise Gluck is a monologist. That's not the case, we find; a skilled monologist will have a point or an effect they achieve, more often than not. Gluck's poem's long lines are merely that, long, un-inflected, without snap or spice. Instead, we have a droning account of a male friend who happens to be a serial romancer--a sensitive male who absorbs portions of women's lives and energy over a period of time and then leaves them for the next adventure. It's not that this isn't worth writing about, but this is more topic drift development, an exercise in killing time. Gluck doesn't even go through the pretense of making this intriguing as poetry and offers up the stale device of disguising undistinguished prose in irregular line breaks.
It's natural to be tired of earth.When you've been dead this long, you'll probably be tired of heaven.
You do what you can do in a placebut after awhile you exhaust that place,so you long for rescue.