On Saturday Night

Christmas, 2001 / No. 7

What do I look like, with my hair


in the middle, slick, and glasses

sliding down

would you come over riding

an ice cream truck, careless, growing

big with milk fat, punching

new belt notches

with you, I’d embellish, do my hair bigger, wear

red lipstick, sloppily (I do not

own lipliner, I forgot these things)

then you could watch my TV and say

how strange I am, we’d force each other

up mornings, I’d stop napping and never drink

alone, maybe sometimes

I’d sink

into the couch, bag of

chips, bottle of wine, you

would flick channels and swat flies

with the Cosmo I bought at Safeway

only for the lipstick ads

(and the sex diagrams).

you don’t part you hair in the middle, instead you smile knowing

they are jealous of, among other things, your blue suede shoes

come over and show me your truck.

I am cross-legged. circulate the air.