Let Him Out
I pay attention to words, and I can say
with zero doubt that Nectar is a wonderful name
for a restaurant. It sounds like churning.
Say it without feeling something sweet
drizzling into you.
A new face fixated with a smile, eyes
caramelizing while I spill over about
the books I’ve read or those I’m trying to write.
I am a brilliant performer, deliver
with deliberance,
which is not a word. And I point that out.
Another stone in a fortress raised in humor,
charm, and seemingly unwavering positivity.
But if you were to scale that wall and peek
over,
you’d find a vastness, with a well situated
right in the middle. Not the type of well
teasing you to cast a coin, but the type
Buffalo Bill would drop lotion in. Except
deeper.
As I walk up Madison Avenue, I’m not
thinking about New York City and all the horror
and wonder that takes place here. Instead,
I wore shoes I never wear and they’re digging
into my heels
while I consider holding the hand
of a new person and if I could allow that
kind of breach. Instead I deflect.
OH! Williams-Sonoma! Anecdote anecdote
*Insert laugh here.
Meanwhile, back at the creepy well in my brain,
I decide to check on my hostage. A little
boy with two chipped front teeth, who
used to make up stories with his action figures
and Hot Wheels,
make burnt grilled cheese in the toaster oven,
hit his little brother and then feel instantly
guilty, and held his mother’s hand when
he would find her crying in the walk-in
closet.
This isn’t how you’re supposed to defend me,
he said as he looked through me.