Poolside on a Monday

there’s nothing like being poolside
wearing your black high-top Doc Martens
with black holey jeans,
listening to a group of man-hating women talk about
prose and poetry.

“Bukowski is a pig” Hemingway is too! all men are pigs!”

“agreed! I only read non-fiction and only by women!”

“Pigs!”

there’s nothing like being poolside
in your borrowed bathing suit and nothing else,
watching the junkies correlate a plan
without you,
a plan that makes you jealous of their
misery
dishonesty
schemes involving terrible ideas 
committed by adults who depend on others for
food
shelter
ripped clothing 
etc etc etc.

there’s nothing like being poolside
with a man who hates where you live, 
calls the people
pretentious
(and may be right about his statement,
but you don’t want to admit it 
so you tell the junkies),

“okay! I am in! it’s time to wake the demons
and slit the angels’ throats! nice and slow.”

there’s nothing like being poolside
alone, wondering when the man-haters,
the junkies, 
my black holey jeans and I will return to discuss
why we are poolside
on a Monday afternoon in the first place.

nope, there’s nothing like it at all…

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