soup

brigade
the business world
is becoming
an unending brigade
of eligible businesswomen.

jane fonda
i’m running on the treadmill.
you’re walking next to me.
we’re watching two different televisions,
two different shows,
having two different conversations
about two different shows.
there’s something going on here,
as i sweat through.
if i stop running, i’ll fall backwards,
but why keep running in place?

off in the distance somewhere,
i can smell that perfume–
that one you don’t wear anymore,
and, thinking about it,
i start to realize that
i’d like to have an affair someday.
she’ll be wearing that exact same perfume,
dressed up nice enough,
but i won’t be– oh, i’m just “being myself.”
it’s something i’ll have to do
even if only to be able to wonder
whether or not,
under different circumstances,
my wife and my girlfriend
would get along.

and all the wild…
tommy garrison got away from it all:
the city, the traffic, the noise,
the banausic blah. everything.
where’s he now? i’m not sure.
i don’t think it even has a name.
but i’ve made it, i’m here,
and it’s just as he described it.
he has his porch and his redwoods,
there’s sunlight and shade,
and he’s LAYING on that porch–
“i’ve even started whittling,” he says,
gesturing, interrupting my train of thought. “see?”
“that’s not whittling,” i tell him.
“you went and found a stick
that already looked like something.”

bad luck
it splatters everywhere.
the pasta, the salad, the al mattone,
and that carefully selected bottle of red wine.
it goes like this:
this poor girl’s in her seat, devastated,
while this asshole waiter,
he just stands there, dumbfounded,
and i can’t help it.
i’m angrier than a thirteen year-old illiterate.

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