That kind of guy
Who unselfconsciously in open robe
Retrieves his paper
Bathmat-scratchy chest exposesd,
Coffee slopping as he waves pleasantly to
The greymalkin next door, who purrs
Into her cane.
That kind of man with a touch
Of clinging shaving cream garnishing a
Lengthening earlobe, who dashes, late,
To his Volvo, but brake-screeching stops midblock
To retrieve and return a wayward basketball
To a sheepish purple
Hello Kitty shirt and a wide
Pair of eyes.
That particular species of fellow who,
Mostly harmless in all his peanut-munching
Placid days, who loves his digital watch and
His high-achieving accountant bride, and his
2.5 kids and normal existence
In middle America.
That man.
Wobbly, in his third
Buddy-delivered-with-high-slaps beer of
A Thursday night, post-game.
Pulls out his phone, friend ear-talking loudly about the
Pros and cons of heavier characters as
You drift on a corner and
The way pretzels bloat him.
That dude. Pokes at the fuzzy bird icon, scanning
Timeline while agreeing heartily in a vague nod,
Bowser! Am I right?!
Inside his face, a foreign snarl forms, feeling
Like a hot flush on his droopy blotched cheeks.
He squints with one eye, hits reply,
Starts to index-finger type at the
Awkward, robe-wearing woman in the tiny square, answering
Her comment on a technical play strategy in the
latest Star Wars game, which he hasn't played yet but Goddamit
it's STARWARS and he and his dad had agreed mom knew
Nothing about the logic of Tattoine and what the hell
do basketball-losing, slack-jawed, job-stealing, ball-busting
LADIES even think they are DOING having opinions on StarWars
It's not like a doily set or a where the hell the sofa goes or whether your
Feet should be on the coffee table or not, even when it's your house,
Having OPINIONS like a goddamn unnatural talking trained dog, a mouse in a maze
Pinky and the Brain, so he types, he types words he would disavow later
If anyone asked, It was that Brian stealing my phone, he's
Such a jerk, he's just trying to get me in trouble, words
That would make the awkward woman feel cold and alone and afraid,
Dictated by the lump of reptile logic deep within his manbrain,
"Die in a fire you stupid cunt."
As he holds the screen back to squint for a final look before posting,
His planet is unfortunately destroyed to make way for a new hyperspace bypass.
