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.