Red says I'm a little orthodox
which I can't disprove on Wednesdays
when I pay my weekly one-dollar worship
to the world's worst cone of yogurt.
It drips on our copies of Homage to Catalonia,
and by the way, we fetishize other fights
in lieu of the ones we couldn't get to or create,
for different reasons, of course.
But wait: Today Red said
something profound about Starbucks,
though I had to goad her into it
(she's yet to recognize patience
as my most irritating advantage),
but it's fine. States will come to recognize
each other's governments,
though Red won't have much of one,
and I still don't get the men thing,
and she's still oblivious to
my Midwest quest for solitude.
But it's fine! Wait, Odd-Couple syndrome:
Turns out "up your alley"
isn't what you think it means.
Chapter Two: Tomorrow, Red files
lagoons of wit-bedizened copy
while I motor around looking for totalitarians
and other young American disasters,
and I'm sure all of us will get famous
if we don't get everything horribly wrong
or attempt small careers in hip-hop,
and if we ever lie or play it wrong
put that on the list of things
I'm gonna land on like a Steinway
in the later years,
when Red says
we'll burn down the hurt
and wash the ashes together for love,
though I still think
love goes it alone.