Driving Home

Where am I going? I wonder. Then
immediately I answer: nowhere.
Why can’t I figure out what to do
with my life? Because I don’t feel
like I am
meant to be alive.
Stark. OK.
Don’t think about that. Angle
the car towards the curb.
Curve the back end around.
Give it some gas.
Hold steady. Just one more time, somehow
get it up the hill backwards
without running into the house or
the neighbor’s fence.
Start to open the door.
Don’t rely on the mirror,
turn around and check. Make sure
that it is open wide enough.
Would be bad if it wasn’t,
wouldn’t it be? OK. Done.



Soup, rice, chicken dumplings.
Sexual innuendo, small talk.
Who’s got the better gadgets–
Batman or James Bond?

Fortune cookies–
In bed. At the end
of the meal
he whips out

his Kohl’s coupon when I tell him
I got mine too, so that intercourse
leads us to delicious Godiva milk
chocolate that doesn’t cost us anything,

just a splendid hour
of flirting with each other
until we have room
for dessert.