for Peter Davis
Sitting in my chair, the theme song
to Beverly Hills, 90210
rubs its nose
on my earlobes. If I haven’t taken the time
to tell you how much I hate that song,
I’m telling you now. There is a TV on,
but the crackle of the yule log there
does not sound like 1992. It sounds
like yams fresh from the oven.
Naturally, I investigate.
I pull all the books from the shelves—
no theme song here. I empty all the ochre bottles
in the cabinet. Nothing. Neither does music
rise from the Tupperware. Spent, I slump
back in my chair and stare out into the yard.
Something strange is happening.
Teenagers walk by, some in torn jeans.
All of them wear sunglasses. Two
are unnaturally attractive and wear jackets.
My pants vibrate. Someone is calling.
It’s Brenda. I don’t know any Brenda.
Labels: Poems for People