I don’t want to go out for lunch. I know the weather’s great
but, disrobed for summer, America cannot hide the ravages.
Grotesque fractures, never set right, easily rebreak
breasts sucked dry—deflated—
sagging cocks and bags— real arousal but a dream
drip of comfort seeking convenience seeking ease
cough and sneeze of cash and want.
Brett, your instincts are good— it is time to get back out there
connect, circulate, spend lest we clot.
But I remember how things are—
Barb and Zoe and mom and Uncle Frick and Grammy Laura and
Senator Richman and Justice Judgeman and NFL owners
Napoleonic cops and plain Officer Krupkes
all the fat thin spenders and addicts and drinkers of Fireball and
Bombay Sapphire— online porn stars and their intense clawed gapers
Mick Jagger and the lady who wrote Eat Pray Love and
His Highness, the Baby, and the tech bros who made click prisons—
I cede the world to them— of course I miss you when I stay in mine
but not too much— and who’s to say which is real and which is fantasy?
It’s backwards, Brett.
So go out and eat falafel in the park named for U.S. Grant
Send back a status report when you can.