Spotting a giant chunk of Brie on a circular tray,
black plastic dish you could serve pizza on;
lettuce lies shoreline, cherry tomatoes are floats,
I think squeeze hard, chuck that cheese at a wall.
Still angry all these years, the secret irrational
that damage would please. So suck another
workday, make lemons turn to smoke, salt over
each shoulder. When do I get rollerskates,
a chance to spin wide on the wood floor
in the office kitchen, bust a nut in
the men’s room, where some dude
didn’t flush a urinal?
Come on over. Come on
over, baby. Let’s board a train
to Jersey tonight, drink alcohol
in public from red plastic Solo cups,
get loud messy, oh my God, sweaty,
the seats not helping, underwear bunching.
We can wear sandals and walk the Seaside
boardwalk. Maybe we’ll rent bicycles and travel
the coast, stop outside strangers’ ranch homes,
pluck rhubarb growing at the ends of driveways.
I’ll blast Hunx and His Punx from a mini
boom box tied to my handle bars;
“Don’t Call Me Fabulous” then
“Movin’ On,” shuffle in sync
with escape, distance,
a weekend of ocean smells,
loudmouths, their children’s cries
as sand castles shrink, tide rising.
Leftovers on abandoned tablecloths,
seagulls eating last bites of sandwich,
a dirty rolled-up diaper we mistake for
half a wheel of sun-warped Asiago.
Read more of Robert Siek’s poetry.
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Photo by Steven Depolo/Flickr