Mob mentality of the modern age, #225

Like the lights in the kitchen,
the florescence
that quivers
above me while
I am making
a meal, putting together
the same tired ingredients
and imagining what could
become of the same things
mixed a bit different,
what could
be done to keep
the spice in this marriage,
or worse, what could
be done with a hot new
body. I kneed the dough
and fold the moment
over itself into itself.
As if someone else would
offer up the chance to
me, to come close by and
attempt to recreate not one
of the tricks one
learns setting
the same table night after

Long night for years,
the placement of fork
and knife, of napkin,
the fine plates with
a fancy pattern. But,
seeing that hottie
has always been
on vacation and is now
not around the corner
and has little chance
of walking through
that door anytime
soon, little chance
to open up
and ask me to spend
a sweltering August night
in her arms, the likelihood
of a friend of a friend
or a fan looking at me
with anything like desire
is as slim as the mannequins
passed each day in the
window at the mall.
With as much chance
as one of them calling

To say how interested
they are in taking me out
for a bite of lucite,
a nibble of plastic,
eating with the non-
anatomically correct.
Instead I will prepare
this dinner and try
to make tonight,
the same meal
with the same love
served on plates
we received for wedding,
the same suburb
and same China
of each night,
I will try to make it
something special.
The unique ones
at work are the ones
who come in all
cute and preening,
white cotton shirt
in a long slope
between the front

Of the breasts, leaving
a deepening chasm
of imagination
to be filled with
whatever wicked thoughts
lurk inside me.
And what’s worse,
instead of carrying a purse,
she totes a bag from
Victoria’s Secret.
One can be
sure it is a gift
for a friend
or love one, one
can be sure it is a pair
of plain white panties,
a long camisole,
or the most
comfortable bra,
but that’s not what they
advertise in the window,
and so, even though
the woman here
is not as long legged
as the mannequin,

Not as pouty lipped
nor as top heavy.
I will imagine
that whatever
tiny thing fits
in that tiny bag
is barely enough
to cover the most
likely scenarios.
So, while I should think
about going home,
about finding
new ways to dote
on my bride, instead,
inside, I am locked
in the gaze of this
stranger, in a fantasy
of some boudoir,
that I might have
the right thing to say
to unlock a desire in her,
peaked by her time
in Vicki’s, opened up to
the possibility that her
boyfriend, fiance, husband,

May not be enough
for her, and somehow
she has a gap
in her life
I could fill.
Lights in the kitchen,
the whirr of the fridge,
the whines of technology
and hums of mediocrity,
the turning soap opera
of the dishwasher,
detergent and clorox,
aroma of shampoo
and soap. I can smell it
from here, and now
must face the competing aims
of something exciting,
new, never before seen
and something safe
and trustworthy.
Don’t confuse the
cacophony in my head
with the deep, abiding love
I share with the one
who is always there

At night, who is happy
making me happy,
who lies down
next to me
and asks
for nothing
but for a kiss,
a kiss goodnight
on the cheek.
This rock
is the rock on which
we can jump
from platform to platform,
up to management
and through the storefront.
But still, she is here
in front of me,
the long cleaved woman
with the bag of secrets.
At times, I think the thoughts
of every boy become
the thoughts of every boy,
old, outdated telepathy left
over from the cave ages,
and in this case,

Left over like an old
disease that infiltrates
the mind without a name,
without a label or remedy
offered up on TV.
Maybe this is all of us,
and so, the more the world
procreates the more voices,
thus the manicness of the
moment, the mob mentality
of the modern age.
You send one
of ours to the hospital,
we send two of yours
to the morgue.
And so, as Cancun,
that vacation you
think you would
like to take, but
never live there, leaves
the store, the committee
meeting in my head
becomes awash with images,
alive with the crackling PA
of all the people

She passes on the way out.
And, somewhere
down there
I am sure there
is her voice as well,
asking if the boys
see her, wondering
if the boys
want her,
hoping the boys
would stop ogling her,
and continue to ogle her.
At the door
she turns each way
to find her way, and looks
back at me for just a moment.
The grin tells me
she knows I know
she knows, and that we
are both okay with the game
and the space and the
counter between us.
Between us, the paints,
and the palette,
and the warm wet clay.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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