From behind
a shade
of a provocative
lilac-quartz lipstick
and sporting just
the right amount of tattoos,
(nine)
the waitress smiled and asked
“What will it be?”
Looking up
I realized that love
had just arrived
and with it,
a name tag: Lana.
Before long
Lana
and I were spending
afternoons together as
summer
slid into fall,
fall into winter.
We married in January,
in June, two became three.
Before long,
three became four.
Her mother
made five.
Two kids,
a mortgage,
a car and a truck,
a boat, and a new mother.
Love slipped into the hallway… and waited.
Along with Mother,
came luggage: 62 years of ideology,
as much theology
and a make-up kit filled
with a personal willingness
to change everything
except
herself.
Lana,
picked up her art degree,
I picked up a second job.
Art led to Arnold
Arnold to the affair that brought home
arguments beginning
in why and ending in :
“No” and “Never
The
youngest found drugs,
death found the youngest.
Love slipped into the breakfast nook,
stopped and looked around.
Mother died
and the oldest applied for a sex change.
Stares for breakfast.
Vicodin at the office.
Oranges chasing vodka for lunch.
Gin chasing traffic all the way home.
Wine for dinner,
what if(s) for dessert.
Another
affair,
more nothings,
a second mortgage
and the question of “Who needs a boat?”
begins to make sense.
Love slips into
the backyard and crouches.
Depression
and despair,
alcoholism
and aloneness,
fear and desperation
become incestuous lovers
taunting all your used to be(s)
Arthritis and assisted living
have become your best friends.
And as love looks around,
she readies to pounce into nothingness,
I look back up at the waitress
and say…
Just Coffee.


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