Looking at the
oily French fries
I saw a stain
on the discolored melmac
plate and I wondered:
what caused this?
Was it a fresh stain or has it been here
for years?
Did the cook wash his hands
or for that matter
did he scratch
his dark oily hair?
As I bit into my pastrami sandwich
the eternal warning returned:
don’t think too much about it.
I’ve been told this my whole life
as I attempt to scale
the holy trinity,
or when I’m trying too hard
to have an erection
that just
isn’t
happening.
I pick up the pen
or seat myself at the piano
and try to disconnect
my brain,
don’t think too much about it.
Let it all drip lightly
like syrup off a stack of pancakes
or the blissful sweat
between her naked cleavage
as she rides me,
both of us
lost in two different worlds
consumed by one love,
but don’t think too much about it.
Where did my children go,
they were just here?
Between holidays and loads of laundry
we traded in our dreams
for beautiful young starlings
who would rather be
somewhere else,
don’t think too much about it
that’s was Evil told me
when I repeatedly rejected her advances
because I knew it was wrong
because I knew she was married
because I knew better
but I did it anyways.
Don’t think too much about it.
what if I lose control and drive my car off the freeway
and if the tingling in my arm isn’t benign
and if our global economy is an illusion
and if no one finally remembers me.
and maybe you don’t really think
I’m the most beautiful person
in the world and that you could be
more easily tempted
than either you or I want to admit.
Don’t think too much about it,
and what dark and pungent mystery
remained waiting down
all those roads I never took?
who might I have met?
what might I have done?
which drug might have killed me?
Would I have been
the sweating and desperate soul
frying pastrami and potatoes
desperately plotting and trying
to escape my existence?
Perhaps,
but I’m trying hard
not to think too much about it.
