i sit at a table in this truck stop diner
/mustard stain
thinking about how I Need to find
continental propriety
is there a book on international etiquette?
there is –so much i do wrong
and glance at the tabasco sauce reflecting in the napkin
holder like a salsa dancer admiring his form in the mirror
(but does he count his trophies?)
fingerprints all over and i wonder who else
sat in this red booth which lacks comfort
who else has questioned the gender of this betty the waitress
(tapfingers ontable icecubes inglass clink i wanted pepsi) Not Coke

if not for my toothpick cabin
i might be a little like scarlett o'hara
but frankly my dear,
you don't give a damn, do you?
i am always one for cheap puns
you'd say it's true, wouldn't you?

have mercy on me please,
have mercy on my murdered dreams
because at night i walk home
sprinkles and cold breeze and orange blossoms
my white gown trailing in the gutters
decorated by the sewer
holding my high heels & wondering
if i would die counting all the stars in the sky
but instead i count two broken porch lights
the smile hides
i do not glow
i dream of a top hat
on a mannequin man
who will not,he does not
he refuses to ask me to dance

it is my duty to Change The Letters
need the words hate the truth Change The Letters
is it how i start everything-
with eyes&heart downcast?
(do not speak of emotions)
never putting on my shoes&dancing?
(do not touch me)

always/sitting in the gutter
slapping my skin which is
burning from all the hate
floating up, floating away
and looking for sputnik
and looking,looking for something/always

i am uncomfortable at this table in this truck stop diner
i do not like tabasco sauce,
nor do i like the echo of empty lives-
betty, betty go away-
oh but please have mercy on me

to read this poem in it's real format: (slash) FP (slash)