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.
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
and the Mexicans we’re in love with.