After Caroline Bird
The bored arses in need of a top up
—so hurry humbling food! The double
date going the way of the tagged along.
The blind date enmeshed in calculation.
Which goes no further after the silver
tray leaves empty-handed. The couple
whose silence lolls like a valley stream.
The foot which flails at the heart for
hanging back to let head hold sway
—go on Son, tell him you love her. The
waiter who takes the olive bowl before
you can say, “Oi, there was still skin
stuck to the stone." Who goes,“Uh-oh”
for the aperitivo Things Were Better Then.
Who hands you the crumpled note saying,
“Get your coat, the rendevous´s down
the dunes riding vicissitude.” The system
which hasn´t noticed it´s eaten until
Wait a Sec, What´s with the crumbs?
Then a race to conjure up the taste,
buds sent into overdrive. When you say,
“Fuck lunch,” and like war generals over
world maps, go straight to the snorting
of lines—men sneezed out on all sides.
When it´s better not to see things
coming, the way a boy on a bridge
delights in a train from behind. When
up ahead is an enfilade, and you have
nothing up your sleeve. When the lines of
boxes fade, and each day says “Go figure!”
Who orders the pie, “but no cream Please,
I´m trying for a third digit.” Who opts for
the banana boat; in touch of sand but
how about just one more turning over?