Tuesday, December 22, 2015

mmdii

I call upon a poem.  Who am I?

Exhibit A: drinks with Two
at Lush Lounge while Otto
is cavorting with his colleagues.

Otto is to join the two of us
(Two and myself) at Sushi
Rika in a couple of hours,

so in the meantime Two
and I, the both of us, are
being forward in our

drinking.  “That is one
choice cut,” he says, for
example, drooling

only a little bit.  And I
agree, sipping and
mmm-ing.  Who needs

a third wheel to feel
good (just because I’m
a dog doesn’t mean I

would like to have one
of my own, for example),
et cetera?  But all I see

at the moment is the
big hole in everything
I look upon.  Literally,

often, holes, gaps,
important stuff missing.
Where’d he go, for example?

“I’m not here,” I say.
“Will anyone be
joining you?” asks

Jean through a
tube sock or an
injection.  She’s

been waiting for 
all three of us at the
place that used to be
called Ginger’s Trois.