Anyway, I'm back and I'm excited and happy. As promised yesterday, today's poem is not dark. But it's not exactly see through. Let's go with playfully opaque. But you know, when you've read it, I think you'll agree, we've all been there.
"Love From" and all that vajazzle.
On Arguing
Due
to unforeseen circumstances,
I’m
hiding in my swanky inner-city
apartment
loft conversion.
Franco,
my churro-lipped lover
is
standing outside the door shouting,
“Mamacita!
Mamacita! Let me in!”
“Go
away, Franco,” I shout back.
We
had an argument tonight
about
the political impact of the burrito
in
modern society.
He
believes we can improve government
one
pinto bean at a time.
I
think there’s already enough sour cream there
to
last a lifetime.
I
pull back the curtains and inspect the city.
Opposite
me, a cat pops his head out of the window.
“Where’s
my Vera?” he calls.
“Where’s
my pig?”
I
know that cat,
he
plays bass in a jazz band.
His
slap is as violently persuasive
as
a TV infomercial.
“They’re
dead and buried, Johnny,” I say.
“We
ate tiny sandwiches at their wake, remember?”
Johnny
stares at me for a long time.
Eventually
a tear ekes from his eye.
In
it, a tiny sandwich evokes itself.
Franco
bangs on the door
in
an insistent club anthem.
I
find myself lost in ecstasy
and
everything is forgiven
in
the sweaty embrace of its whirlwind
so I let him in again.
As
Johnny has taught us,
life
is too short for political debate
amongst
ourselves
and
the Mexicans we’re in love with.
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