Exile in Dumpsville
He walks in with eyes wide open like garbage chutes,
taking in the whole of the place until
they settle on their target—she's sitting
with her roommate in the back corner of the coffee shop,
cups and pens between them
like they're doing third grade arts and crafts,
crumpled paper mixed in as if she meant to remind him of his letter,
of his none-too-well thought-out image of how
she'd left his heart when she changed the locks, and he has
resolved to stride over there with purpose,
each footstep like a slamming door, like he's home now
and he wants some answers. But he's stuck up
at the counter scanning the menu without reading a word
as he weighs what he hopes to achieve here. He could
harness his manhood and try to carry her off
into a champagne sunset but they both know
he's more pack mule than mustang and it's hard
to get excited. That kind of angst is why he felt the need
to rehearse his speech—only stealing a line or two
from that Tom Cruise movie and maybe The Notebook—
and then it should be roll credits but it's not so easy
when she's perfect and awful and no wonder
the evil step-mothers ensnare the good kings
if they all have legs like that. The high school kid
behind the counter is staring at him sideways
so he orders a chai latte, with soy milk, and he puts
the three dollars on his credit card and says
he'll take it to go. He doesn't even look back
as he leaves and in the car he rides in silence,
feels fucking badass and decides that he likes acting
like a grown-up and why would he even want one more
Christmas with her father's blasé racism
and her mother's too sweet pecan pie that may well have
been made from the bones of slaughtered elves but still
at 11:11 he can't help but hope her next boyfriend
clogs her toilet and screws her younger sister.
