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.
Literally, I’m a pig.
Lone Wolf Poets don’t fly.
So, no; now