jonberger

Just so you know
Zoe was not hitting on anybody.
She’s just a friendly girl
and she and Jacob have a history
so she has every right
to touch his arm
and ask him if he’s really happy

but April always gets so touchy
when anyone comes near
any of her toys.
It was like that when they were kids
in her backyard, too,
when they would read Archie comic books.
If Zoe turned the pages
in the wrong way
April would take the comics
up to her room
and the nanny would ask Zoe
if she perhaps didn’t mind
going home a tad early.

They were too old for comic books now
and they were too old for these games
but here April was
stuck upstairs
sucking up attention
making sure that Jacob knew
who owned the books
and who needed to beg permission
to be allowed to open them.

Zoe’s sick of it, sure,
and wishes April would just grow up
as she remains locked out
scratching at the door
asking her oldest friend
if everything is OK.

She is locked in the upstairs bathroom
because she’s had too much to drink
and she saw her boyfriend flirting with Zoe
and they have something of a history
and she feels kind of bloated
which might have something
to do with what she had to drink
even though it was just the two sangrias
but she’s kind of a lightweight
and the crowd outside the bathroom
is growing.

Her boyfriend’s there
and her best friend
and two of the co-hosts
and even Zoe is bunched up
against the bathroom door
trying to convince her that everything’s OK.

I too
want to tell her everything’s OK
that this too shall pass
that the days get better
and these friends and lovers and associates
are there for her
and nothing’s as bad as it seems.

I want to counsel her
that she has nothing to worry about
that she is beautiful
without histrionics and alcohol
and that she should load up on water
to avoid a headache
and that she might as well
since she’s in the bathroom anyway.

I want to help
to hold
to encourage and involve myself
but I find an empty bottle to piss in
and then go back
to hitting on Zoe’s visiting cousin
who’s already had like six sangrias.

Yeah, you lost it.
The idea that
for just a moment
seemed like the solution to everything
a cure for blandness
a recipe for love.

You were on to something
just on the top of your tongue
at the corner of your mind
a little bit out of arm’s length.
It was so close
and now it’s withered.
It’s been wiped.

You try to retrace the steps
physical and psychological
to return to the great idea
but it’s of no use.
You can come to nothing
and the thing,
the thing which could have
been the ticket out
the resolution
the French Connection
(assuming that applies;
you never saw the film)
the final solution
it’s gone
probably forever.

Maybe eventually
a better thought will come along
and you’ll stop wondering
about this missed avenue.
Perhaps someday
this loss will no longer bother you.
Now there’s an idea.

She asks why we can’t be friends
and I can’t go into it
at all.
I just say “Not yet,”
and hope that it’s not enough.
It never is.

I can’t be her friend
because I always wanted her,
there was simply the time
before I could admit it
and the time after.
We cannot return
to some fictional state of friendship
that we never truly shared.

I can’t be her friend
because I’m so hurt
and angry
that everything she says
that is not “I want you back”
is an inspiration for a rant
that I am unable to give.
I can’t yell at her
while I still care
– and I do care
too much.

I can’t be her friend
while I am so invested in a past
that I hunger to recapture.
I can’t be her friend
while i can’t be honest with her.
I can’t be her friend
while I still have hope.
I can’t be her friend
but I can state and reiterate
as a gem of truth,
“Not yet.
Not yet.”

I don’t know
why you don’t like me that way.
No, strike that.
I can drop a dozen reasons why
you wouldn’t be into me
why anyone wouldn’t want me.
Nobody is capable of listing my faults
better than I am.

There is probably no one
who self-loathes as well as I do.
I don’t have to tell you
how fat, bald and pockmarked I am
but the fears that I try to hide
the insecurities that hide my every action,
I know them intimately.
I probably hate me
in ways you couldn’t imagine.

So I understand,
I get why you wouldn’t want this
too near you.
I can’t help but agree.
I just wish
you weren’t quite so perceptive
and we weren’t in
such utter agreement.

If you hear her name
do not turn
or shake or sweat
or show any other sign
of tremendous duress.
Do not let her get to you.
She had months for that,
why let her now?

If you see her on the street,
be polite
but keep distance.
She no longer has the right
to hold you
or hug you
or touch you
or vice versa.

Cut your heart out
and place it in a lockbox
(with a freezer unit,
if possible)
and keep it far away
from your view.
You will have no need
to see that thing
for quite some time

but when you feel the urge
to be reunited
with that heart
it is best if you still provide time
for it to thaw.

The pinpoint laser cannon
worked just as advertised.
There seemed no remains of him
after all the heat and light
had dissipated.

There was no sign of the fine young man,
a fan of late period Leonard Cohen
and all eras of the Coen Brothers.
No sign of the nervous dancer
but excellent kisser,
a strong swimmer
but an easy burn under a hot sunny day.

There was no sign
of the petitions he signed
or the protests he attended
or the committees he committed great energy to
or anything else about his beliefs
that inspired him to be placed
onto the Watch List
and then the Hit List
and finally the Burn List.
There was no evidence of him
at all
but for an occasional
bit of ash
blown quickly into the wind.

Yeah, it’s no big deal
but by coming over here
at this very moment
you just happened to interrupt me
in completing a poem about you.

I’m not angry
but, see,
I am distracted.
I was in the zone there,
comparing your beauty to that
of a squirrel:
sleek and fast,
dark eyes, full of intelligence,
always out of reach.
The metaphor could have gone deeper
had I been able
to further focus.

So of course
it’s a pleasure to talk to you
directly and privately like this,
but really,
I’m gonna need some time
to wax rhapsodic about you
from a distance.

Like, now?

The children
are required to read
for twenty minutes
so I have roughly half that time
to write.
It is like I
am Tillie Olsen,
if Tillie Olsen had a job
for three hours a day
and was not required
by her culture and her gender
to be the servant
of everyone else in her family.

It could be worse.
I could have to work four hours
or four and a half
and these kids could be less entertaining
or more defiant
but the struggle
to be a great artist
against the constricts
of the world around me
is quite real.

I feel your pain, Tillie Olsen
and Maya Angelou
and Juan Valdez
and Humpty Hump.
I sing the praises
of those great artists before me
on whose shoulder I stride
growing larger
more immense in talent every day
while the friggin’ youths
I am paid to care for
read in blessed silence.

I refuse to feel guilty
for what was done.
Mistakes were made,
perhaps,
but they were made
for righteous reasons.

The money I took
was just money you owed me.
I’d have already been paid
if the world was but just.
You can insist
that I lacked your permission
or call me immoral
if you feel you must

but I did what I had to.
You left the cash there
in your pocket
right in front of me
spotlit by streetlight
when you should have
already been gone from the hotel room
out into the night.
Still you remained

unconsciously lying
all spent and wasted
while snoring so loudly
as to wake the dead.
I watched you, steaming
and worried about payment.
Then, I just acted
where opportunity led

and I grabbed the loot.
I’m not sorry.
I needed it, and you
were obviously not providing
your precious dollars
all the care they deserved.
I assure you
I’ll do much better
after I pay my bills.

If you wanted the money
to remain your possession
so it you could squander
on whores and beer, too
you could have decided
to hold it more closely.
You should have done more
to keep it with you.