PERFECTLY SORE
Everybody's here again, or else
they're gone; I sense the mirror
only shows shadows. Long ago
I passed this off as bad habit,
but now it's returned. I said to
the girl in the flannel shirt (for
some reason she calls me 'Hon'),
'I've been meaning to ask you,
do you have a real name?' People
seem only to call her 'Sister,' or at
the most - and I've also heard -
'Sister Christian.' She smiled and
said 'Chris,' just the same.
-
Nothing deep about that, I figured.
I sauntered off to where I'd been
sitting and watched what else
transpired. The beer truck came,
she took the bills of lading while
the driver unloaded. It was sort of'
a check-list proofing of the delivery
contents. 'Bottles against bills' had
a nice ring to it, were I to use it.
Look for words that sing, but don't
abuse it. I may have read that once,
in a writing handbook from one
of those musty college courses
they used to parlay.
-
Everybody's a writer now.
Just as everyone's an artist,
or a songwriter, or, whatever.
It runs like aluminum drainage
down the side of a roof: catching
all the run-off, never looking
for the proof. I'm perfectly
sore about that.
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