The Argument
I came at you like an off-duty sanitation worker.
“Where the hell is that stack of prescriptions I left on the counter?”
You replied not unlike a colloquium of professors
hedging their bets. “It’s in the hedge, I bet.”
I said, “You threw it out the window?” like a monk
staring at a half glass of warm water. “Not really,”
you effused, suffusing the room with aromatic post-lunch
exhalations. “They blew out when I ope’d the winder.”
I said, “You speak like that now?” You twisted up your face
like a tailor clutching the hem of a skirt while
holding back a fart. “I am just busy,” you explained,
the way my mom used to explain things. I replied,
“I’ll go look in the garden,” and began to trudge toward
the door, the way people trudge toward doors
when they’re on a mission to find their prescriptions.
“Good luck” you called after me, but I had already left,
was out of earshot, was out of patience, out of lists
of things to be out of, even. “Best wishes,” you shouted.
“Arrivederci,” I whispered, but I didn’t mean it.
from Nimrod
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