Window

___
I live on the outskirts
In the servant houses
Of the rich
With my one good suit
Gripping a Bordeaux
Gaping at the opulence
Across the window
Looking in
Like Fitzgerald
Fettered
Not having
In weakness wanting
Faking
Peering
Through windshield glass
For a prize worth taking
Breaking a barrier
Barring the wealth
Thinking of dealing
To make a living
Without stealing
Ineffectual Intellectual
With a nametag
And wet dynamite
Beneath my ribcage
A library card
And a mouth of pulled
Teeth
A crook
Me
Guilty of being
More free than free
Brave with failure
And unsatisfied
With the opulence
Across the window

Shopping At Wallmart

___
I can’t afford not to be here,
Among the morbidly obese,
Hobbling down the aisles
With their fat children,
Who know no better
Than the deer hunters,
The patriots,
Stockpiling rifles,
Pistols and canned foods,
To protect themselves
From me.

Not quite a poem

I first noticed the “thin line between love and hate”
That all nerds allude to
When you called me tender.

Tenderness is what our grandparents felt at the altar
And what ninjas know nothing of.

It’s dogs barking
And you altering your jeans,
meticulously. I didn’t think you could sew.

Tenderness is “This page cannot be found”
And me floundering to end your sentences
When I am fully aware that “The Newlywed Game” went off the air years ago.

It has so much less to do with me
But then, I’m writing this,
And you’re probably just glossing over it.

Rose petals are cousins of razor blades
And step-parents can mime affection without prompt.

It’s dogs barking
And you pouring over greeting cards
Until you find a phrase that meets your standards…

Or what you expect your standards to be.

So, you steal a line from Top 40 radio and I swoon
Because a line lifted is a line felt.

But ninjas wouldn’t even pause for this cold pot of coffee.
Ninjas don’t like coffee at all.