THE GIRLS HERE AREN’T AS PRETTY AS THEY WERE IN THE ’60S.
I nod my head in agreement
eating a gracious assortment
scrambled, fried, a hardboiled egg
ROMANCING CHOLESTEROL = HAMARTIA
Julia brings me the book I had left
the night before
as I work to get an article published
in a peer reviewed journal
because impressive people are impressed by that
I clutch it, wearing the typical
because Joey Potter
is all I want to remind people of
although I was only eight or nine
when DAWSON’S CREEK was big.
I tell the fellow where I went to school.
HELL, I WENT THERE TOO!
But tonight, it’s a high school reunion
that calls for his purchase
of the kindest tequila
HERE IS MY DRIVER’S LICENSE.
Why would he pull something
when he’s already commented
on my ability to recall personal info.
with a speed so glaringly creepy?
I hop in the car.
The circuitous bus route
I take home every night
shall be put aside
for thoughtful conversation
We drive through the neighborhood
and he tells me this really was
The Place to Be.
But what happened?
Misallocation of funds.
This is the reason for all decay,
I’ve come to realize.
I tell him of my plans
and what I like about this
that hopefully gives me
flexibility to achieve these things
I sincerely desire
And he wishes me luck.
A legitimate stranger
has bid me well.
Twelve hours later,
I clock myself in.
The girls eye me with caution.
WE WERE MORE AFRAID FOR HIM THAN YOU.