bleak eyes three months dimmer from
florescent lights
they open their cores to the thought
that their gametes could converge with another's.
But like the worst night of a show's run,
where the New York Times reviewer sits in row two
and stares down his nose, through his glasses,
and chortles. CHORTLES! -
I shaved a forest of growth
and she put on an ill-fitting dress.
We walked down to the corner
(or we met there, I can't remember. Damn the cold.)
and bellied up to the bar.
The spring threatened, but wavered.
It was warm, but it wasn't.
It was nice, but it was snowing.
It rained for three days straight.
But inside, my Blackberry still went off.
Her iPhone tempted her to better company.
Maybe the promise of a better time, with better people
and more attractive mates.
She told me how wonderful the springtime was
and I remarked on how tree pollen made me feel lightheaded, but not high.
My phone went off and hers did too.
I laughed, and though of how the poor rely on their technology.
The trick to being rich, I said finally, is to be above your phone and e-mail.
Be there, but not there. Be so there that you are unable to be found.
Like Jesus.
(If there was ever a fellow above it all, it was Jesus. Body and mind.)
Jesus' would have never answered his cellphone.
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