I read Sylvia Plath in my lunch time, I printed her poems out during the morning. It is an odd thing to do, I agree, as would most of those occupying the seats around me – they wouldn’t know who she was, let’s be honest. Some 55 year dead tragic – desperate to go – they wouldn’t understand at all, the great unwashed, the feat-foot ninnies.
This cathedral to commerce echoes with empty sound, the way business does, so many people achieving what? Poisoned air, and denial, politicians pull their pants up high and smile, as they make policy deals with their benefactors. (It would have once been corruption before the whole world, seemingly, swung to the right, allowing corruption to flourish)
My salad is lettuce upon lettuce upon lettuce, it would seem, not enough noodles from dinner last night for me to bring lunch today. I watch a handsome lawyer discuss divorce with his client. The sun comes in the high up windows next to us. I can see the light shine across the creases in his crotch. His eyes flicker momentarily in my direction. He pushes at the blue fabric on his thigh and I amuse myself to think that I caused that. His double Windsor knot holds him together, huge on his neck, like a badge, or, fucked if I know. He seems too young to know about ending marriages and she looks too old to bother, really, get a Winnebago and take your husband holidaying, a change may do the both of you good.
Sam messages me with a “how are you, busy?” message, and I feel settled in my love.
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