Blowing through
a children's book
about a prince in peril.
The little twit adorns the body
of two vessels I've known:
one a white-capped breaker, one a fellow
ship in passing.
He needs to stop questioning
as much as I do.
The mac-n-cheese wasn't
the same sober; too much
grated parmesan, not enough
American and a whole pot left
to suffer through tomorrow
coagulating in the fridge--
It was better when a drinking buddy
made it at three in the morning.
It was better when twelve twenty-year-olds
fought over the last of it.
It was better when we swore we wouldn't
turn out like our parents.
Swallowed the last of my juice
and took the pill dry.
Took a few tries, couldn't get it down.
It dissolved on my tongue before
slipping passed my massive tonsils.
Antibiotics as stale as this filler.
Chocolate chips erased the bitter taste.
(My nurse could smell the infection on me.
Thank God there's no perfume this time.
At least she knows to follow her nose.
It's gotten her this far.)
That blue-and-gold box lied to me tonight:
'al dente' is a euphemism for foolishly unprepared.
That's exactly what this all was.
I'd apologize, but there's no point--
Like me, friend, you've fallen in love
with a lot of people who didn't exist.
Pinch yourself next time.
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