The Milkshake Question
I haven’t had a lover
In 12 years—I promise you.
Pacing myself, I suppose.
Perhaps this is Pythagoras of Samos proof
That all Greek love gods are cruel,
Making me vomit-puke in spittoons
Which you used to see in old western movies
Starring Carey Grant, and Greta Garbo.
Comely women in fluffy hair
Walk the café this morning,
Subtle, and keeping their eyes from mine,
But I am abjectly alone and cynical:
I say almost all of them wait,
As if trained Skinnerian rats,
For pecuniary redemption.
I could take one to breakfast for a day or two,
Because I got a $75 Panera gift card
From my x-wife for Christmas,
And it hasn’t run out yet.
But I shall not.
I shall continue to sit and think,
Preoccupied with the evening in which
You asked me 24 questions,
Better than any of my 11 psychiatrists,
Who failed me;
And I nearly told you of my Jody Foster obsession.
“Would you like to walk with me
To the milkshake diner?”
I might ask,
If you would appear
Fourteen feet above me
At the coffee club on Wednesday.
I don’t take the tranquilizers anymore;
Then again, they didn’t work, anyway.