That feeling, when you have a coldAnd you lie on your back,On the kitchen floor, long enough thatYour nostrils become wooden salad bowls.
I’m down there, sexy as a pear,Grasping the stems of my ankles,When signs of warStatic from your potato radio.
We fight. Fists like old potatoes.
Then, as has lately been the case,You bless me with aMundane declarative statement toMark the end of the argument:“The red onion is going bad.”
Mundane, I have discovered,Is clay coloredAnd tastes like the rubber coating of telephone wire.
“Have you ever drankWhite wineWhile peeing?” –To continue in that vein.
A trap! Innocuous Chardonnay, ubiquitous traitor,Sparks it up all over again.Until,Here is your little window!Wait for his intake and thenRide his huff out through the narrowing gap to freedom.(Forget trespassing to pajama-dipIn Charleston-warm chlorine under aShattering of purple sky.Forget the gateway phrase“A plum aplomb,” mouth full ofPlump fruit and thin lips,–Not yet apart tearing quips.Forget rain rebounding,Dancing on a trampoline of surface tension,Misting your forward tilted chins.)
Instead, write.Do this in the remembranceOf how bad things can get.