4 Poems by
Nathan Graziano
< More Poetry
|
Basic Psychology
She rested her elbows
on the table,
leaned over the ashtray
and whispered
above the chatter
of four businessmen
sipping martinis.
"Why did you
spend so much time
jerking off
when we were together,
and now you
want to fuck me
all the time?"
I took a long sip
of my drink
and cleared my throat.
"I think we all want
the things
that we can't have," I said.
"Well, it sucks to be you,"
she said.
I agreed.
The Cat Piss Coat
I took my only suit coat
to the dry cleaners
after realizing
that my cat had pissed on it
some time between
the last wedding I attended
and one I was going to
that weekend.
I handed the coat
to the lady behind the counter.
"Can you get rid
of the ammonia stench?" I asked.
She sniffed the coat
and cringed.
"We'll do what we can,"
she said,
handing me a receipt.
I'd wear the coat
to the wedding either way.
Shake hands
with the bride's father,
smelling of cat piss.
Dance drunk and sweat
in my cat piss coat.
My arms flailing
and sleeves stretching
as I spelled out the Y.M.C.A.
I'd be referred to
by the other guests
as "the guy that smells
like cat piss."
"It's no big deal,"
I said to the lady.
"I'm going to the wedding alone."
Two Days
My ex-girlfriend
stayed for two days.
We locked
the front door
after buying
beer and cigarettes
to last the weekend.
We pulled the shades
and proceeded
to fuck for 48 hours
with the fever
of trapped animals
gnawing at their own legs.
And in-between
the Bud Light bottles,
oral sex in the shower,
cigarette breaks
and a big breakfast
on Sunday morning,
we found the time
to mumble "I hate you."
In The Navy
Jim stuttered his whole life.
Right up to the point
in his sophomore year of college
when he joined the navy
and left without telling anyone.
I received a postcard
from the Persian Gulf
a few months later.
He said the ships were big
and he was doing well.
Nothing else.
I ran into Jim three years later
at the supermarket.
He had a new tattoo of a leprechaun
in a boxing stance
on his forearm.
Jim wasn't Irish.
He cursed like he had been nursed
by drill sergeants.
But still stuttered.
"I've b-b-been h-h-having
a f-f-f-f-fuckin' blast!"
he said, running his hand
through his closely clipped flat top.
He was stationed in Connecticut
and said he'd call me.
"F-f-f-f-fuckin' right!
W-w-w-we'll g-g-g-go
l-l-l-looking for some
f-f-f-fuckin' poon tang," he said.
I haven't heard from him since.
|
