On Waving at the Chevron
Darling, it's time to return to the way
things were before you drank cabernet
between my sheets or took, without asking,
my oldest red hoodie. I'd like that garment
back now and my ratchet set too. Leave them
in my mailbox at work, the one
I share with the handsome mechanic,
you know, the Chicano with the very long
mustache. When I called you Lima Bean
and Muffin Breath and Sistine Spackle,
I meant it, I did. I mean, Pie Face, that was
honest feedback, which, I might note,
you've never taken well. They say
the ability to hear criticism is a sign
of maturity, and you've never been deaf.
Remember the night we stayed up late,
playing answering machine? You made the beeps
and I left the messages? You are the algae
in my fish tank, the salt damage on my truck?
We laughed ourselves drunk, but the sentiment
was true. I'd like to assure you, rumors don't lie.
My screenplay's been taken and this Saturday
I'll be attaching the wings to my jet. The corn
is yea high and that rash on my thigh has shrunk
to the size and shape of a scream. Every Tuesday
and Thursday, I make pasta from dust
and the carbs keep me strong when I train
for the longbow competition I'll compete in
next March. You wouldn't believe it, but my aim
is spot on. It's nice, isn't it, to catch up like this,
like old friends, which, I guess, is what we aren't.
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