It’s Not You. It’s Me.

I put my daughter to bed,
kiss my wife
and take an easy walk
to get some groceries and a bag of beer,

at Driggs and North 8th
the ground gets hot
and the air smells like cinnamon:

across from the liquor store
a bright light
shines on a parking spot
where a flying saucer sets down,
beautiful, symmetrical
stainless steel
gull wing doors open.

Wearing a navy blue suit,
and black wing tips that look an awful lot
like the ones in my closet,
a green man
steps out of the ship,
he looks around
pretending to be careful,
and he steps towards me,
touches the side of his nose,
fixes his red tie
and says,
“Look,
I’m not from where you might think I’m from.
Not ‘up.’
I’m from the other place.
I just like the way this thing handles.
I wanted to find you
so I can look you in the eye
and let you know
when you’re not looking,
I’m the guy who’s fucking you:
I snort lines of cocaine
from your baby’s round belly
when she’s asleep in her crib;
I strangle your cats until they can barely breathe
so they sound asthmatic,
I make love to your wife
better than you,
she can’t stand you,
and I talk shit about everyone you know,
I told the landlord to get bent,
I told your boss to take a hike,
you think you’re tired now, man,
I am going to burn you down
from every angle possible.”

I pull a pair of beers from the bag,
open them up:
I hand him one,
take one for myself
and take a good long drink out of the bottle
before I look down his pointy green nose
and say,
“Thanks for the heads up;
I’m glad it’s you
and not me.”


Poetry Writing

2 thoughts on “It’s Not You. It’s Me.

  1. that is one of the best poems ever….i could smell the store and fear theguy…it is great my compliments to the writer

Leave a Reply