Eating the windfall apples again.

She's on a couch and she's losin' it
her voice trying to sound profound
but only making a bigger fool of itself
than the worthless writer did with the words
she's stumbling through tonight.
The middle syllable of a five-dollar adjective
is accented improperly, over-stressed
for an emphasis that isn't there.
In a fit of self-conscious floundering
she repeats the offending phrase
just barely aloud at first, then for
her sole intended listener to hear.
He's sprawled out on an adjacent
piece of secondhand furniture, his mind less
attentive to the orator than mine
though I'm fifteen feet away.
I cringe in mild horror, glad that
they're not the muddled cords
that'll someday lull my kids to sleep.
More the cruel critic than erudite ear
I march up the creaking steps
to talk trash about another one
who will never taste the wrath.
"I can love them," I reassure myself
in the inner tone I've selfishly come to love,
"as long as their books don't clutter my shelves..."
and the rabbit hides under the baseboard
while the butcher wipes sweat from his brow
well-knowing that most people, himself included
were born to sound fake in the air.