poem of the day 11.16.15

her world

she shouts across

the comic book store

to her husband/boyfriend

cisgendered plutonic maybe special someone

he just yelled at me because i was sitting on the floor

although everyone within earshot

knows that’s not the case

how he politely leaned over and said

miss, you can’t sit on the floor

as if he were saying excuse me for belching

like it was him not her

sitting there in the middle of the crowded comic book shop

queen of her own little world

feet stretched out like she was getting ready for a run

knock-off louis vuitton bought in chinatown bag scattered here

red starbucks cup with no discernable holiday symbol

empty and upturned there

playing on her cell phone like a good automaton

but maybe she’s tweeting something

heartfelt about paris

telling everyone on facebook that terrorism

happens in beirut too, you know

while changing her profile pic to blue white and red

perhaps she’s instagramming a photo

of homelessness run rampant in new york

starving kids….that kind of pull at the heartstrings stuff

i mean you can’t just stand somewhere and post that shit

being profound i.e. equals sitting the fuck down

be it a comic book store

or the curb round the block

most likely she’s posting something mean

about her boyfriend/husband/cisgendered

plutonic maybe special someone

dragging her ass into a comic book store off all things

on their one and only trip to the big apple

so he could pick through batman comics

instead of going to the top of the rock

times square or the 9/11 memorial

and this effete, bearded maybe gay/bi/poly

wispy, bearded, big glasses, plaid shirted geek

nerd, looks french, probably knows where

beirut actually is know-it-all with his soft voice

picked the wrong time to tell her to do anything

save go and find someone to kiss her ass

who then has the audacity to apologize

and tell her that sitting on the floor is a fire hazard

i mean, what the fuck, she says

to her friend

who says, just stick out your belly

and pretend you’re pregnant

because america loves expectant moms

as she crawls up from the floor

yoga stretch pants showing the top of her pale ass

clutching knock-off louis v bag

yet somehow still playing away on her cell phone

like some kind of anatomical anomaly

leaving boyfriend to his comics

leaving comic book store employee to his measly salary

and leaving the red starbucks cup behind

in silent protest

as if to say simply

i am