Still Falling
My friend’s trying to stop smoking, and I say Oh cut yourself some slack, sick
of pretending we’re not going to die. We are going to die still falling
for crap about berries, a glass of red wine. It could be worse. We’re not suicidal,
smack fiends, Swazi. So we’re still skipping the gym, still eating fries, still falling
to sleep with the TV on. Whatever. We’re daily closer to dying, but
it appears to happen slow. Nightfall, dusty snow, cold night still falling,
he laughs, long rope of smoke, warm breath rising. Right. We each
hang ourselves, but it’s a long rope, Jill. See? We’re all still fine, still falling.
Man’s Man
A ladies’ man is often
a man’s man, Thomas
points out, and we see
how far this can go.
He points at Sarah, says
She’s a real woman’s
woman, which makes
her sound kind
of gay. Woman’s woman:
gay. Man’s man? Couldn’t
be straighter. Mano
a mano or man to man.
We talk about this
over burgers, drink
our beers. Three
people, a vinyl
booth, a heart
to heart. A tête-à-tête.
