Highland Café
Mem-Day Weekend 2009
11:18 pm.

The Scene:
An almost urban bar,
hipsters and aging hippies,
account managers,
some townies there for the money.
A place where the burgers matter and the bartenders mix craft.
The band is overeager alto sax,
with a drummer off riffing on drummer’s Viagra.

Boney women of uncertain androgyny,
Plush women eager for husbandry.

A woman with heavy rimmed glasses and sharp bangs
pulls a quart of milk from her soft leather satchel and shows it to her taller boyfriend.
This is supposed to be her funny,
but it reminds me of her loneliness.
She spends the night bending her neck up, and
I imagine the milk spoiling in the heat of her armpit.

The men are surprisingly short for the most part.
I notice they all wear their shirts untucked.
Dry cleaners and tailors around the world are appalled.
I would not sleep with a man who did not have the courage to tuck in his shirt.
You, you single women, read my mind and revolt!
Tell them to do better.
Save the female world from sartorial slack.
I resolve to throw away my husband’s beige polo shirts.

We grow tired.
The Planter’s Punch sticks to my gums like fluoride wash.
At home, I collapse on my Marimeko sheets and
Wonder, did the milk spoil?