Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 36

essay cover chalice

Smarmy Wings
The tale of the night I told my wife I was stepping
out to attend a published poet’s public reading

~or, why the Women’s March on Washington mattered

Relax. Who cares? She gets back, we’ll get us a beer, order our wings. It’ll all be good. I’m freakin’ starving here. Why d’ya think we came here anyways? … A couple o’ beers, get us our wings – relax. All’s good.

“Screw that, Hoz. No. I did not come here to be waited on by a pregnant waitress. No way, Jose. This is nowhere in the goddamn constellational agreement of why I’m being here. Nowhere!”

In the agree— … in the wha—?

Chalice Sinclearly storms up from the table. I watch his back as he flies towards the Hooters exit. I am disgusted in his reaction. Then, right when he’s about to smack his face against the pane of the door, the sheen of a distant table’s waitress’s hamstring distracts my condemning attention.

The End.

Literally, I’m a pig.
Sadly, literarily,
Lone Wolf Poets don’t fly.

So, no; now
The End.


This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

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