ESP: A Poem


The next table must be
  talking about Bushy’s
State of the Union last
  night–

"the Joint Chiefs even
       jumped up and down"

*

the arbitrary
           spur

        of
            excitement

*

Academic Lunch

Women have more subtle
        antennae .

I’m "working" on my salad
       greens.

  Not even a glance at her ambiguous
       ring finger
alerts her — prior glance

   spiky moussed
    hair

  then attractive
      bone cage — yes,

                              + I will come
back (i promise the Self)
                              to check —

Is it a class ring? engagement?

MAR-
 RIA-GE?

*

hound

*

But …

(the self remonstrates
  w/the Self)

she’s NOT
    MY TYPE !

*

Downloaded
  into physical
     form

"I" have to larf.

   ESP?

  How is it
     supposed
       to help?

*

She disappointingly
   resorts

to Waitress reassuring code cliche — Enjoy!

*

Not my waitress.
I cannot go across, reassuringly
   make small talk.

Her antennae are delicate,
        accurate

to the keenest
      portals of

dog-desire. She knows.

I will walk back coolly to the john,
    I enter the kitchen
tell Willy his crab-stuffed mushrooms
today are exceptional,
    non pareil.

She notes my delicate glance aside,
   sparing her

the customary
    macho dog heaviness,

the Bushy assault.

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