mmmmdcxcvii

The Business of Pleasure

I remember getting dressed all spiffily
just to get undressed. Those were the days
of sex. The delight of a mustache over a

cool drink of jalapeños. Juice me this, juice
me that, I’ve no requests except that you
come back with some hair product. The

usual, please. Don’t you hate dreams that
are a little too aligned with reality? I say this
aloud, or would if I were awake, because I

like using my voice. When it can be heard.
I keep trying to press the issue of us pressing
the flesh, but we’re both out of rocket fuel.

Which sucks bigtime, I have to say. But I’ve
picked up all of the maps and all of the forms
and am a professional at making travel arrange

ments. Or I used to be. No, I am. I love being
new places but hate traveling. That’s not true.
I love seeing you but am frightened of air traffic 

and (today) of air traffic control and flippant 

and especially mean government officials. Heads
of state with no imagination, no wiggle-room.

I flew first class once. My one and only
business flight. I mean I’ve made hundreds
if not thousands of arrangements for businessfolk

but only one for me. That was for paid work. 

From Boston to Boca Raton. There were pelicans.
Everything was pink. And the ocean was so warm

I’d surreptitiously excuse myself to it as often as
possible without giving the impression that I wasn’t
on the ball with regard to the official business

of the whole thing. That was my one trip to Florida,
ever, and I plan never to go again.  I have, however,

trekked through most of the states coast-to-coast several 

times. But I very much prefer never mixing business 

with pleasure, even though the boundaries of both 

have grown quite porous over the years. And I swear

that as I get older there’s more surface area in
the overlap of one over the other.