i know it's dinner time when a nauseous headache sets in.
actually, it's been bothering me ever since i can remember,
it's just that i just remembered. you see?
i reach for a jar of tomato sauce.
i try to pry it open.
i try to crack the lid.
i try. i pry.
no use.
i reach for the jar of alfredo.
i pry it open.
smooth as butter.
a familiar friend.
i desperately search for some kind of vegetable,
some dry bread,
some sour wine,
anything to lessen the pungent parmesan blow.
the bell tower tolls.
dinner time.
and i find my attention consuming everything else
but that which i am obligated to consume:
there, in front of me.
you were presented.
like a dancing bear.
some entertainment.
like a funny midst the reels of cold war coverage.
when popcorn and a movie were ten cents!
says the beaming grandfather; his pants pulled too high.
gas price averages have reached a dollar-and-seventy-cents today according to one survey!
says the beaming anchorwoman; her lips painted too pink.
in other news,
the president has officially recognized the state of depression.
and just before the holidays, too!
ho ho ho!
put the jar down already.
only a prince can pull the sword from the stone.
only a fucking prince.
so give the guy a break.
and if he's robbed of the very pennies he's swindled for so long,
bail him out, will you?
while his profits are private, his losses must be socialized,
it's the godblessamerican thing to do.
patience is another virtue,
and one that actually makes sense.
i waited ten minutes in the drive through:
freezing, and listening to the last leg of an apologetic piano concerto.
the boy in the window reappears.
a greasy paper bag of warmth is exchanged.
i wait longer still, for a pedestrian.......
and am on my way.
porter turned away the french fry i offered him in thanks for
accompanying me to pick up my hot dinner.
my brother says it's because dogs don't like potatoes, only the salt (as the dog licks his sneakerless feet)
i say it's because the fry was too hot.
his buddy says he'll eat it if the dog doesn't.
we take what we can get.
we get what we can afford.
we stomach what we are presented.
every last bit of it,
because someone, somewhere doesn't etc.
privilege has a rotten sense of humor.
she's so lucky. she's a star. but she cries cries cries in her lonely heart wishing __________.
a pretty dress hangs in the closet
never worn.
hopeful, she pulls it out every time...
but no one seems impressed
and no one seems to have an occasion
nor is looking for accompaniment
nor could imagine such a scene.
i've finished with alfredo,
not finished indefinitely with alfredo,
just with it, for tonight.
i hang up,
and pack everything away in the refrigerator.
"numm", leftovers.
just one more excuse,
one more act,
one more dancing bear away
from that impossibl[y]e [beautiful] jar [girl.] of tomato sauce.
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