Before the Orchestra
Put on your best dress
sit proper at the edge of the bed
let him join you
hip to hip
he reaches with cufflinks
and a pressed white shirt
to grasp your hand
and stares into your reflections
in an antique mirror
that was his great-grandmother’s
from the old country
whom he never knew
but he knows you
and wants to sit
for a minute or two
before the orchestra
for a breath
of unadulterated self
before unnecessary discussions
about exaggerated accomplishments
pecked at by social norms
Sit, for a minute
let him hold your hand
and stare
Chen
Chen read my poem
which I told him was somewhat, loosely,
kind of based on him
when he returned
from what he called
an ‘enlightened retreat
from the every day’
that resulted
in ‘adventures across
this great country I’ve come
to love, to cherish,
and along the way
I’ve accumulated a great many converts.’
I noted his repeated use
of the word great,
recalled how his absence
had been framed differently by dear friends.
Dear Friends
Described
‘Heavy drug use. Embezzlement.
Gambling losses.
A suspicious warehouse fire. Rehabilitation.’
A criminal case searchable in public databases
Chen read my poem
puffed a Parliament Light
said No one reads poetry,
and people who write poetry only do so because they lack the skills to be a musician or a singer. Poetry is something, it’s something you’re forced to read. You know, at school. No one reads poetry, and no one likes poetry.
He made a decision here
to look at me.
Especially self-published poets.
Told him I’ve been published
he said no one cares.
Craved his approval—this arsonist messiah
Poked the bear and said
you aren’t a god
Got cold-cocked on the chin
I am God
Told the bartender we’re
best friends
and waived him off
Chen read my poem
You can publish it
He held air quotes around ‘publish’
No one’s gonna read it anyways.