He Said

Everything is a compromise with women
Which is how I guess it's supposed to be
But that doesn't make it any less
Annoying.
It always starts so nice
With lust and sex and longing and
All things nasty and fantastic
But it never stays that way
Before you know it you're arguing
About what kind of soap to buy.
They try to change you
Brush crumbs from your face
Dress you
Get annoyed when you fart
When it used to sort of
Turn them on,
A predictable arc from
Discovery to concession
From earlobes to
Taking the phone off the hook for a week.
I wonder what I've left at her apartment
That I'll never have the courage to retrieve.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
 Photo: Sam Smith

She Said

Sebastian hasn't called in a week
Which is the same amount of time
I haven't called him
So it's a stalemate.
Each day this goes on the
Longer it goes on
But I'm putting my foot down this time
And I'm ready for it to end
If it comes to that.
I love him
And sometimes I feel he sees it, too
But the disagreement
The stupid disagreement
Over what I don't even want to acknowledge
OK it was about the soap
And now it's come to this
And our lives are slipping away because of
Stupid things like pride
Or something resembling it.
Maybe he called but my phone didn't receive it
That happens sometimes
Technology isn't perfect
So now he might think I'm purposely avoiding him
Which I'm not.
I'd just about take his call than anyone's.
Maybe he's out ring shopping all this time.
I can think of a lot of things to delude myself.
Why would anyone be attracted to me in the first place?
There's nothing likeable or beautiful about me
I'm certain of that
But there are some things I do well.
I'll just sit here and wait
Stare at the phone and will it to ring.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
 Photo:  Holger Ellgaard

The Last Time I Saw Richard

The last time I saw Richard
Isn't a Joni Mitchell song
It was when he put on his
Yellow scarf
And looked at me
As if I were death,
Like I'd done something
Horrible to him,
Which I had, in a way
But no one deserves that glare
Fierce and scornful
Like a Kabuki mask
Permanent
But the memory of his flesh is still there at night
I think of him with nostalgia
Longing
As if everything we ever had
Was theater.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012 
Japanese woodblock print by Torii Kiyotada VII 

Dispatch to Evangeline

I finally muster the courage to
Pass a note to John
Who slips it to Millie
She gives it to Evangeline.
I am attentive to her
Perfectly pressed hair
And that one freckle above her right eyebrow.
I love her
Secretly.
Miss Kenatol is teaching denominators
But I am busy composing my
Dispatch to Evangeline.
It comes out half-hearted
Because revealing the truth to her
Would be admitting it to myself.
So all I can write,
In my neat handwritten scrawl, is
If you like me I will like you back.
John doesn't open the note
But Millie takes a peak,
Wry smile.
Evangeline reads my words,
Looks up
Scans the room
Finds my eyes.
I look down, mortified, embarrassed.
What have I done?
All the blood in my body dissipates.
I bury my head in my arms.
Miss Kenatol asks what's wrong.
I say I'm trying to memorize something,
Which satisfies her.
I see Evangeline write something on my note.
She passes it back to Millie
Who opens and reads it,
Then on to John
Who holds it out to me.
I reach for the talisman,
Bringing it close but not opening it,
Afraid to reveal what's inside.
I don't want to know
Just yet.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo: strngwrldfrwl from Japan

Never Let No One Man Worry Your Mind

Carl won't tell me what's wrong
Leaving me to guess why he's quiet about
Everything.
I make things up.
Something to do with work
Or the airports he lives in,
Dissatisfaction with his job,
The traveling and car rentals,
Those tiny hotel pillows.
I ask him but it turns him angry,
Incredulous.
Nothing, he says.
Maybe it's me
Something I said
Not making him feel special,
I don't know.
Does he have girlfriends in all those cities he visits?
I search his laundry for clues,
Check his phone for wayward texts or emails when he's in the shower.
I find nothing.
This leaves a growing distance between us.
He doesn't see it.
I give him extra love
And make the lasagna he likes
Because I'm going to explode.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

Settled Love

I tell my husband to empty the kitchen garbage.
He says, I don't know what movies are playing.
He never hears what I'm saying.
I ask again, but emphasize it with just five syllables:
Take Out The Garbage,
And add a question about what that has to do with movies.
He looks up from where he's planted on the couch.
He says, What?
The garbage, I say, losing patience.
I was waiting for please, he says,
Throwing it back on me.
Infuriating.
Please, I say, Jesus.
There it is, he says, That wasn't so hard.
He takes that small victory and rises with great effort.
And we should go see a movie, he says, Anything.
We can see a movie, I say.
He moves slowly for effect and pulls the bag from the kitchen can.
Mister strong man.
I should have done it myself while he was watching,
To show him,
To make him think,
To put everything in my favor.
But now he's trudging outside with the garbage and advantage,
With the weight of our marriage on his side.
I close the door behind him,
Put a fresh bag in the can without waiting to asking him,
Wipe down the counter, and
Pour myself a drink.
Maybe I should have started with please.
I pull one of his beers from the refrigerator and open it,
Standing by the counter, waiting for him to return
So I can offer it with a smile,
This time.
The door opens and he comes inside
With the semblance of our settled love.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo by beervana.blogspot.com

Smoked Trout

The clerk says
Smoked trout
Is the best thing in the store,
So I buy eight cans and
Bring them home.
I'm scolded for my extravagance:
Whoever heard of smoked trout?
I say, The guy at the store seemed very high on them.
She says, I sent you there to get vodka.
I'm not sure how to reply other than a lie:
They were out.
She says, You can't drink smoked trout.
I want to yell, but I keep my anger in check by saying,
It's supposed to be amazing.
She looks at me like I'm the biggest
Mistake in her life.
I asked you for
One thing.
When she leaves, I turn on the television
And open a can,
Draining the oil from the shallow rectangle.
I sit in the dark with a small fork and
Eat the fish.
It does taste good,
Incredible.
I change the channels and imagine being alone forever,
Not answering to anyone,
Doing nothing for the rest of my life
Than eat smoked trout in frightful solitude.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

Photo by Trader Joe's

We Can Stay In and Play Games

His lover stands at the window,
Gazing at the impenetrable rain,
Dejected,
Her hand flat on the pane.
It's just rain, he says, but her only reply
Is a sigh.
He thinks he ought to join her,
Put his arm around her,
Give her comfort,
Tell her that all her
Great plans
Can wait until tomorrow
Or whenever the storm relents.
But that would take great effort
So he stays sprawled on the bed
In his underwear
With a beer,
And he enjoys the nostalgic smell the
Rain brings,
The mesquite and creosote,
And a particular summer when he was 10.
He thinks it's good that the parched lawn will drink
And the birdbath will be filled.
We can stay in and play games, he says,
But realizes too late it is the wrong thing to say.
She turns to him, then back to the rain that will
Not relent,
Not forgive.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

Photo by Frank Vincentz