I take a page
from some stranger's book
by turning down her drink
while she sprawls across me
on the couch.
"Describe your ideal woman..."
she says, feeling so falsely original.
It's a ten-round fight
in as many seconds
as I dodge my mind's vignettes--
How the girl on that TV show
curls her upper lip over her teeth
just like you do when agitated
or the time I saw the painting
hanging in your kitchen
on the living room wall of a customer
and almost dropped my wrench
or that corner where I spotted a truck
from your development's landscaping outfit
and my friend said "That's a sign"
or the non-existent birth certificates
of those hairy, sweaty kids
you promised to get me back
and the night I walked away
from breaking up that bar-fight
when I felt your hand leave mine
and...
Jackie, if you're reading
you're wrong about the Universe--
All your math be Damned.
I've run from gods I couldn't name
but yours is carved in brick.
Currently reading:
"Fight Club" by Chuck Palahniuk.
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