Читать книгу Match - Helen Guri - Страница 10

Glory me, she likes my _____.

And even at this late age.

Another one, she likes my _____,

could come with me to the wine valleys

of the mid-century boogie

for a weekend away, laurels ablaze.

My lines grow more shameless with time,

I’m the proverbial bulldozer.

Tell me, do you come here

to bathe in pure Gewürztraminer,

and, days later, show the tub ring to your mother?

Mine’s buried three leagues upstream

from the one we’re in now.

You seem a little out of it too –

but by this age, let’s be honest,

we’ve both swallowed villages.

You’d think I’d stop apologizing

and level the field.

Sure, I agree it could never work anyway,

what with your absence of interest

in my bronto-thesaurus, the brass thumbtacks

of my private whirlpool.

The myth of our obsolescence is hardening.

There may not even be time enough

to fling rotini between the bucktoothed canyons,

melt lettuce to lace negligee,

and depart like racing slugs

from each other’s cracked lips.

And I just remembered my mortal fear

of addressing the opposite sex –

it has to do with my aversion

to upslopes, my latent acne of the soul.

I’ll be off now to my hole under the hill.

But if it’s any consolation, I’ll treasure

the might as well you seem to cough to your palm as I go. Seismographs will sense how I scorch all the way home on my own steam at the very idea.