In the darkening room, she
You will never come out of your room and we take turns shifting around your anger.
Unable to bare the pain of long pants any longer
I put on the boy's shorts to go down to dinner.
I look entirely stupid. But, I've gotten into New American Writing,
so my outfits now are officially irrelevant.
Red wine and white wine. Salmon Royal made on his mother's grill
the best bread ever. Potatoes with good salt and rosemary made by Jim.
B.'s fried green tomatoes. Salad. Tea and cheesecake.
Happy Birthday to B.
My mother would never ask me what slice of fish I wanted.
What is the world coming to?
I'm annoyed because the guest [in beige] is a terrible dresser and hates the
Catholics. And her date makes some statement when I tell him Jim is an atheist
bicyclist, and I can't tell if it's sarcastic or not. And then B says we are all bicyclists.
And I say me too. And the weaver looks at me like I have lost my llama. How can
a cripple ride a bicycle? I know he's thinking. He has long, flowing gray hair, and
Jeff asks him if he is a man or a woman. I try to explain that Jeff is really open
about gender and his godfather is gay, but it comes out all wrong, and everyone
just gets confused because the weaver's not gay anyway. The dinner partner in
beige has disappeared. She has been gone for a long time. She reappears in a
state and makes a show of having to go home. And everyone says warm goodbyes.
And Jim and Royal will watch the zombie movie and the rest will sleep.
Kurt complains when B. offers to turn
the heat on. He wants to sleep in a
cold room piled with blankets,
his insistance on saving the universe.
Yet, when I go on and on and on
about bicyclist helmets laws and recycling
and disability rights and teaching and
drug laws and the election. He goes on and on
about how I am wrong and he's a libertarian
and he doesn't believe in the seat belt law and he
is bothered by the woman in
beige because beige and beige and beige
don't go together. And we continue like this for
awhile. And he jumps on B. for something,
I can't remember what. He says he is tired,
and that I am too political and he wants to rest.
I want to fuck him so badly.
[Or] merely want to be able to tell someone.
But, JH is so far away in Africa
packing the last of the things, and we
have not settled onto the details of the piano
for his godson which has been a two month project.
No gossip can come until the piano is bought and sent.
Author Discusses Poems