after Karl Tierney
-
-
It's Tuesday inside,
and I'm thick.
Part micro-plastic,
part giallo flick.
My work,
nominal
data in the lap,
a lake
or dance.
Make it clap.
Does that make
sense,
like a disingenuous
question?
Anecdotal,
beige
as the Fed book?
Not at all.
Not only
is it 6 months
past my birthday,
but I'm 48
and nice job
don't look my age.
I try to list
what I have missed:
Hobnob,
and the knee-jerk
comparison
to a domestic
animal,
one-trick.
I tease
a trade,
a scrape.
I hum along
a Nineties
song:
Don't walk
away by Jade;
You're my little
secret, Xscape.
A paper bill
(I overheard)
has been
canceled,
like a word,
or man.
Sold.
Such fun,
which one.
I've had my fill.
