Two young men
chat the domestic. They can’t
be older than me, by much.
Maybe they’re younger.
A dishwasher installed in a home
kitchen is the savior of one’s relationship. They both chuckle.
Gently talking shop (which is life, obviously) they seem so content.
One is doing yoga with his girlfriend, who is very serious; they talk
finances now, savings, insurance, rent — something I can’t make out.
I wish the world would swallow us all.
how many mad men will she screw
and accrue throughout
the years? maybe later strolling
down a park bench in her mid
thirties, baby in a carriage, she’ll
see an old flame
lying on a stoop, burnt out with a
liquor bottle gripped in a muggy grasp
of grit and grime. he’s talking to god
right now, just like you used to do
with your crystals and weed and pill
cocktails. what, you’re better cuz you
got a kid? he might hint at, might murmur through slobber-mouth.
because she got a house upstate
in some forested sanctuary away from
the politics, the poor, the people that remind
her of the bad, she feels good. good. good.
maybe it’s in the hamptons, the house. maybe it’s on the
west coast. she holds baby trevor, or trey, or trish
close to her breast. people can be so mean,
she blinks behind shades that cost upwards of three hundred and fifty dollars.
Pints before two & I’m smitten. She likens
maybe running pants & boots;
they don’t seem a match,
maybe we are though.
It’s a crap shoot. It’s crap,
In all probability I’m a
No one shows interest in you
if you’re not interested in yourself.
You: case in point, tap away at a keyboard
already bored with me.
I read Frost’s ‘Fire & Ice’ in my head. It’s on a loop.
It’s a mantra.
Hopefully no one can catch on to what I’m catching on to. The faces,
& the jeans & dresses,
short shorts, & boyfriend
Eye-contact is the most fun. I try & have the blue pop
I woke up from a sketch
& there were women everywhere.
There’s no helping it, I stare.
It’s important not to linger, on well, really anywhere.
High-waisted things are in. This accents certain curves,
muscles I suppose. Hey, no complaints from me, the eternal
voyeur, abusing the hell out of my periphery.
faux-feminism rips across
her cheek as she speaks,
and she does often.
an opinion: uttered with a venomous
smile, a twinkle in the eye;
slanted posture, a bare arm back
over her head, she slouches and
why she’s bad for you; indeed
every man, nearly except the
hypothetical. accept that
her trochees keep a life shattered.
she spits them madly, belief
not even fully present in her own mind.
drunk off the accusations though:
‘this, this, I know poetry–
no, you’re still not ready.’