January 2003 / Volume Four / Issue One
Jason Floyd Williams
sometimes it works.

She's upset with the fellow
for some reason.
It's very obvious even
from where I'm at:
On the street, in my car,
waiting at a red-light,
watching them inside
a bar.

He tries to do this apologetic,
Mr. Farmer-don 't-pick-me, chicken-
dance- then he tries to
peck an imaginary worm
on her nose.

She doesn't budge.

I partially understand
them both;
He may have cooked her
a green-pepper/tomato omelet
on Tuesday, tried calling Wednesday
to meet for coffee
Thursday.

No dough.

She's got a class–
will be picking up the kids

afterwards–
then work.

So, he tries the weekend,
knowing the kids are
at the ex's.

She works; doesn't call.

Now that they're together–
inside the fancy pub, with
me viewing outside, rain
pounding like a Krupa solo–
he wants to convince her
of his alpha-male status:
That he's the best of the flock.

But she's probably heard an
offending story about him
somewhere.
it's a small suburb.

In his mind, the Maya glyph
of this relationship is complete–
shell call. Glyph X; they'll fuck,
Glyph Y; they'll be happy &
take the children ice-skating
every other Sunday, Glyph Z.
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