Wednesday, December 22, 2004

Here's a draft.

It’s hard to diet.

It’s hard to diet. People are always—

chocolate caramels, bon-bons spattered
with vanilla cream, thin mints striped
with pink--shoved under my nose by
perverse hands.

No one likes to eat alone.
No one wants to leave me alone.

Lasagna haunts my steps, insinuates
itself onto my desk. Everyone congregates
in the lunch room. There the microwave sings
to me, beeps like a chick released from its shell.
Salad glistens with light, my boss curses
each staff meeting with Krispy Kremes.

The girl in the next cubicle talks with her
mouth full, she is loud, excited, full of juju
bees, she throws handfuls over the divider,
I am silent, sweep the sweets from my hair and

The James Dean from the mailroom takes me
to dinner, slices his steak in half, pads it with
butter, and slips it onto the blank plate in front
of me. I am distracted by the crab cakes
and peanut sauce, two tables down.

I decide to end it all. I row into the center
of the river, the swift, gray tumble,
but before I throw myself in I see it --
the water, sizzling with fish.

No one has bought a calendar yet, which makes me VERY disappointed in you people. Hmph.

Ivy sent me a very nice postcard. Scary and cool.

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