The tanned woman in the Midwest deli
yesterday re-convinced me I’m superficial.
Not that I needed re-convincing, since
I’m regularly the irregular normal person
at the international annual convention
of practitioners who See Things Differently.
Whenever they feature that multi-humped
camel in their closing ceremonial parade
shaped like a cloud lolling overhead,
I can only stiffen my neck and note my
intermittent blues, and thus always miss
my chance for imaginative prefabrication.
I’ve tried those correspondence courses
that guarantee amazing untapped clumps
of your brain will suddenly spring to life;
I have, in fact, vastly improved both my
cartoons depicting eye-patched pirates
and my respect for, and appreciation of,
childhood wounds. But, more often, I’m
forced to demand my money back, then
simply reinvest it in the faster foods –
or, if available, the finer foods served fast –
or deftly pocket it to fund fevered outings
in search of Brillo, two-for-one foaming
drain de-plugger, and (of course) expired
Beaujolais Nouveau. Just once, just once,
I’d like to walk into my local sub shop,
stand in line, chin held high, but not let
the predictable dilemma between lean
pastrami and freshly packed head cheese
reduce me to my usual denominators.