The man at the table behind us
just off the plane from Tuscany
is relating a suspiciously fine fable
to impress a disinterested female
about besting the house at roulette
after she had long gone to bed.
‘I hope you did with it,’ she said
‘what you don’t do anymore’
all without even looking at him.
Ah, what talk gets you in is trouble.
He usually decided to walk before
his roosters came home to peck him.
‘Shit,’ he thought, who’d blame him
for playing into an irritating game
after traveling so far for so little
sway over rapid-fire fray of words
his confidence unraveling his desire
stretched to mediterranean limits.
Noise of vacuum switched-on which
she quietly deflected as he ran
his mouth over about half his life.
He stabbed his salmon complaining about
sex without love and poked his fork
wailing about salad without dressing
He swept his drink from the table
and his hair off his harrowed forehead
summoning his last ounce of dignity
he pointed a slender finger at his eye
‘I see you all for the phonies you are,’
he yelled, bleeding for all to see.