28: TAKE HIM, HE'S MINE

Tall, red hair, loves tuna on whole wheat:

the ideal husband (but I don't have a husband).

Or bald! This is the morning (so it is)

of Dorothy's mistrust. Walk along the beach.

Call the police. (I'll call the police.)

Of course, for a minute, then divorce.

Horse, divorce, of course (I could care less).

Are we partners or what? People filled

with hope stay under the covers.

He got the message; we got the flowers.

Friends of construction and neat knots would beg

to split the complications: on one hand

the Belgian waffles, on the other, a

potato, a sandwich, a failed novelty.

Five o'clock. What did that creep do to you?

(I have the highest suicide rate in the office.)

You'll watch a marathon of Barnaby Jones,

eat a half-gallon of rum raisin, throw up,

and fall asleep in your kimono. Muscle in.

Lean on us. Piano wire with Uncle Vito.

No knees nor fingers nor sandwiches

remain. Where are you going? To get ice cream,

or commit a felony? I'm glad we had this little

talk. You, the personality of a dial-tone, and me,

saying, "You could always write poetry

for a living!" Lesson #1: Quit being an idiot.