write me a love song

Write me a love song, she said, asking, really, more than anything, nicely, certainly not demanding, and he said I’ve tried, but it hasn’t worked, and she nodded, surprised at his matter-of-fact answer for she was just kidding, a bit, and she hid her reaction with a smile, but suddenly felt a lump grow in her throat, and she looked away from the disappointment in his eyes so he wouldn’t see it in hers. What’s it mean, she asked, still hiding herself from him, and he thought for a moment, then for another, then said it just means that the words haven’t come, then added, yet, and she said, but aren’t they supposed to just be there, by now, and he sucked in a deep breath and answered, I think so, yes. She didn’t cry, right then, though she wanted to, but instead just hid what she felt behind another nice smile. It was what she did; it was her way. Vulnerability wasn’t her strong suit.

a moment

She pulled on her t-shirt, tucked it into her jeans, tossed her head this way and back, fluffing her hair, smiled into the mirror, licked her lips, one more time, then headed downstairs. He was waiting for her, and, God, she was in love. She was in love with him, with her life, with being in love. Her mother’d told her there’d be days like this and she’d nodded and hoped and, later, prayed for one. And, now, here it was – that kind of day. He didn’t see her when she reached the living room and she watched him looking away, far off, toward something that wasn’t visible, and she loved him even more and she said a quick prayer that went something like I-hope-I’m-not-dreaming, and she wasn’t, at all. He turned to her and looked in her eyes and said, “I love you,” and she felt a rush of happiness that she knew would never, again, come, like this, even if they lived for a million years, and even though there was a sadness attached to that, she knew that what he said was true and real and she took his hand, raised it to her lips and kissed it.

i'm a medium

She wore a t-shirt that read “Jesus Patrol,” which begged the questions: Was she looking for Him or with Him? He wore one that read “Stud (picture of a muffin).” Not so much. This was here, but it could’ve been anywhere, given the incredible ubiquity of overtly inane t-shirts. For a time, it was the “Shit Happens” and “I’m With Stupid” shirts that advertised a compete disregard and/or ignorance for and of irony. Now, these. She was short and dumpy. He was taller and dumpy. The medium is the message. Still.

luck of the draw

The kid wore a red bandana and a Lakers jersey. His girl, as she was assumed to be, wore designer jeans, a Saints sweatshirt and had a tiny blue heart tattooed on her left cheek. Both were dead. Shot in the back of the head. Cops found no signs of forced entry and not much else. The report would hit the news in half an hour. Perhaps something would break, then. Or not. Edwin “Maize” Walker was the detective assigned to the case. His turn. Bad draw. And he knew it. This one would take too much time and no one would care, anyway. He was right about the former, but dead wrong about the latter. Literally.

Gait way

She didn’t realize what she’d given away – and what she’d taken -- until later that day, when she saw his wife walking across campus in the gathered evening. Until exactly then, until that very moment, it had all been a blur – exciting, sexy, heady. He’d chosen me, he was having me! And what was funny, or, better, perhaps, odd, was that it was the way she, his wife, the wife, walked that did it. Her gait was hurried, purposeful, as she headed, through the cold, lonely, dripping rain, home, to him, to theirs. It was at that moment that her body revolted on her, revulsed, physically, and she had to run to the bathroom to vomit. The way she walked; the way she walked; the way she walked – and she picked up the phone to call her mother.

gertie mcnurt

Gertie McNurt was a crispy old soul
who always went shopping for friends,
she’d slow up the checkout to divvy the goods
for Clara and old Mrs. Bends.

‘til a voice this one day grumped out loud ‘n’ clear
that his time “was a’wastin’ an’ fast,”
And if ol’ lady Gert chose to shop for a crowd
she might start start out by kissin’ his ass.

To which she replied with a grizzled ol’ stare
“Sonny, boy, that’s an oddly request,
but from looks o’ what sits on th’ top o’ yo’ neck
it might be the choice that’s the best.”

That shut him up quick and silenced him fast,
Then Gertie took more of his time,
by fussing through old age and Medicare cards,
‘fore paying in nickels and dimes.

The moral’ve the story is simple and hard:
Respect for the elderly? No!
It’s: don’t get in line ‘hind Gerty McNurt
and her traveling shop-for-you show.

For Gertie McNurt was a wankish old soul
who shopped out for all of her gals,
then grid-locked the checkout to divvy the goods,
“Jesus Christ,” “m-----------,” et als.

mourning thoughts

She awakes every morning with the same idea -- it’s time to start over, time to move on – and lies, there, until she manages to convince herself that she can make her way through one more day, and then another and another and another until a new week passes into old and she feels the relief, again that she’s not put waste to everything they’d built, or worked at building. He is not a bad man, though probably not as good as she’d convinced herself through the years. In fact, he’s pretty much like she, she’d admit, struggling to make sense of who he is and what he is and where he is. And there is honor and dignity in that, for both of them. But what continues to nag is the idea that there’s something more she’s missing, and maybe, probably, him, too. And life is short is what everyone tells her. So, she decides, as she has before, that tonight will be the night. Tonight she will tell him that she is leaving. Then she will. Or not. Her bags will be packed, but it will depend on the moment. Again. For the umpteenth time. She laughs at herself, sadly, for she does know what she will do.