ESP: A Poem

The next table must be
  talking about Bushy's
State of the Union last

"the Joint Chiefs even
       jumped up and down"


the arbitrary



Academic Lunch

Women have more subtle
        antennae .

I'm "working" on my salad

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

   spiky moussed

  then attractive
      bone cage -- yes,

I will come
back (i promise the Self)
check --

Is it a class ring? engagement?





But ...

(the self remonstrates
  w/the Self)

she's NOT
    MY TYPE !


  into physical

"I" have to larf.


  How is it
       to help?


She disappointingly

to Waitress reassuring code cliche -- Enjoy!


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

Her antennae are delicate,

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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