the first poem I ever wrote
Pupkin for three I said. The hostess looked up from her reservation book and into my eyes. I was fixated. We began to work together; planning, scheming, brewing up plans of destruction, plans of immortality. I followed her to the table convinced I could marry her, fuck her, touch her, complete her, make up for everything she lacked, provide her everything she needed. I imagined us as newlyweds; giddy and sexual, throwing our inhibitions out of the hotel window, room service attendants bringing us breakfast in bed. Us, together. Dining by candlelight, expensive champagne and half-eaten appetizers. So innocent, so naïve. Tremendously caught in an instant, a frame of life, a mere splice. Rich deserts with two spoons, holding hands instinctively, oblivious to doubt and defeat.
She handed me the menu as I sat down at the table, one minute older.