…and I begin to hyperventilate
in a J.C. Penny’s dressing room.
Not because the fit but the make
And model. Am I a Boot-Cut?
No, I am the Minotaur; I storm
from the store, grumble my way
into the outdoor mall. Dizzy and
snorting amongst the sunglasses
huts and ground fountains, my head,
grotesque as a buoy, sweats as all the fat
neo-Athenians scurry by. Before
a Cinnabon, I snarl at the cashier brat
who seems repulsed by an old woman
rummaging for exact change. Give her
time, you. I flare my nostrils through
the crowd, bend my brow. Move, you
big bastard. My palms feel empty
without a hammer, something to swing,
something dainty to smash. Ash look,
some people have brought along
their stupid dogs with their mouthy
little faces. I am like them, the mongrels.
From under an umbrella in the food court,
I imagine the movie we’d star in, the terrier there,
that other lummox and I, where in the end
we all split, a good runaway bit full of
cowardliness, lots of yipping. Digging
for a cigarette, I find your postcard,
and again I’m fighting back stupid
Tears. In this city alone, I’m a lout
without you. A ferine, brutish phony,
wandering about, without you.
Categories
Mark Petrie- “I miss you, you beast”
