I’ve got all night. It’s okay. And maybe you can,
okay, learn something here. Brace yourself as I
play through your home (or homeland), mangle
hopscotch (my knees, the soles of my loafers)
for your lovely chickens’ lives. They get the point
anyway, right? With dodgeball? Learning how to
bloody themselves up on the concrete basketball court
behind the elementary school, practice for being an adult
in a dry county. But where were we before we diverted to
the bathroom? Cassavetes in a nutshell? A perfect mousaka
from scratch? How to avoid herpes (or at least its symptoms)?
It’s enough, ‘verily,’ to land you in a serious spa by mid-afternoon,
a week in a terry wrap replenished every half hour or so by an
understandably-impossible-to-tell-whether-legal-or-not
(and who cares, really, right, since he’s got such obvious
skill!) towel boy—massage therapist. One who’ll (keep
it authoritative and yet throaty—as in you’ve difficulty
breathing—for this) clean your blinds all rosy-cheeked
and might even (authoritative; throaty) re-alphabetize
your bookshelf. And you’re lucky. Oh, you’re lucky.
I’m an empathist, you see. I might not look it, but
I’ve a bouquet of lean smirks right in here. I’m
no Clint Eastwood, though I throw people off,
I know. Play your bones right, sweetie.
Not like a jackhammer up and down the
avenue. Avoid the sniper in blonde
around the corner. Don’t let the
drycleaner take your measurements.
Spit-shine without a spectacle. Take
charity seriously. Don’t listen to the
big head poking its long nose out of your
living room wall. He’s selling insurance.
Avoid leather and thrift stores. Possibly
fur, but don’t be a rat’s ass about it.
A motorcycle, yeah, but never
drive it in the rain. Appear
often from thick fog.
Self-diagnose, be
clear with your doctor
and don’t let her talk you into
a contagion. Walk often through your
alma mater, chuckling to yourself
intermittently about academia.
