a conversation with psmith
vomit wells up in my throat
as your laugh fills in the room's
antiquated crevices, interrupting
the unceremoniously placed knick-knacks
that fill in me, fill
my creases: the space
along my elbow,
the gap
in my eyelids,
what can't be seen
in my toenails
and my arm hair
heaves a hefty sigh,
"a heady headhache?" I,
a heavy-handed whore,
sheepishly bleat for an answer,
cold and nondescript, you
always describe the wonder
in seeing across "the pale
parabola," an instance of wit,
ivy league irony, lost
an insensitive boor like me
groping for answers to
questions you've placed on
the room's shelves among
the curio(u)s,
on the 12:15 from London
(or the 8:45 from Poughkeepsie?)
I admit to my own
naïve willingness to do anything
that doesn't involve fish.
as your laugh fills in the room's
antiquated crevices, interrupting
the unceremoniously placed knick-knacks
that fill in me, fill
my creases: the space
along my elbow,
the gap
in my eyelids,
what can't be seen
in my toenails
and my arm hair
heaves a hefty sigh,
"a heady headhache?" I,
a heavy-handed whore,
sheepishly bleat for an answer,
cold and nondescript, you
always describe the wonder
in seeing across "the pale
parabola," an instance of wit,
ivy league irony, lost
an insensitive boor like me
groping for answers to
questions you've placed on
the room's shelves among
the curio(u)s,
on the 12:15 from London
(or the 8:45 from Poughkeepsie?)
I admit to my own
naïve willingness to do anything
that doesn't involve fish.