Musings by The Poet Loriet

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SultryRose's Signatures

I'm gnoshing on guacamole
on a full moon Thursday
before the commencement
of my counseling sessions.

On the far side of
the potted plastic plant
sits the Miller Lite man,
hands folded as if
either praying or sleeping.

I pretend to stare at the
painted ponies on the wall
and he begins to fidget,
balding head under glaring lights
but subtly sexy in baby
blue oxford and jeans.

We were the only two drifters
clinging to taco shell lifeboats
only he had a cell phone
flotation device as if
to prove he wasn't alone.

As cheese dripped down my chin,
he made call after call.
Surprise, it's me!
Yeah, I know it's late there
but I was at this
local Mexican place
enjoying refried beans,
my second order--
and thought of you.

He glanced my way,
and I rolled my eyes.
Yeah, I get it, buddy.
Who cares? So,
you're not alone.
What's so wrong
with being alone?

I went back to the
painted ponies, full moon
and guacamole.
They were more intriguing
than watching the Neanderthal
eat beans and evolutionize
by reaching out
to touch someone.

We both put our pants on
one leg at a time
and have the exact same means
of being both hunter and gatherer
on a Thursday night.

God bless modern science.
Miller Lite man was able
to cure the common cold
of dining alone
with unlimited
night time minutes.

Lori Beal