Friday, January 21, 2011

All's Fair (12/23/10)

Like two generals
we sit, opposite each other,
avoiding, no, making,
eye contact over a feast, so called,
with lowered expectations,
as we discuss our battle plan.

Conversing about old confidants,
as you butter your toast
and I rip off my crust,
which you said obviously
marked me as an only child.
Cursing the sons-of-bitches
under our breath at revealed betrayals.
Cowardly deserters, selfish mutineers,
who sabotaged past proposed operations.
But we miss them, regardless.
Must one break alliances
to form new ones?
I wish it were as simple
as asking “Who’s side are you on?”
But it isn’t. And I won’t.

We could grid it out,
like the distribution of syrup
to each waffle’s square.
Which holes can
and can not be filled.
We could space it out.
Limit the number of hours
we spend not sleeping
in your bed;
Your Raphael face
in close proximity to
my Renaissance body.
Anything to postpone the inevitable.

So then, we agree,
the coffee gone cold,
we’ll keep each other in check.
Territorial queens desperate
to defend their domain.
Our arsenal equipped with weapons
of mass construction.
Paint, brushes, and pencils.
Winning, not capturing hearts.
But isn’t this discussion
a little premature considering
we’re only moving out our pawns?

We both know you can’t put guidelines
on these things, but we’re gonna try.
You do know what they say…

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