The Charm Offensive Extrapolation
I wasn't as surprised
as I should’ve been—
grayed avatar,
dead links,
cached titles still looking
to lead somewhere.
And here I am,
already down
a cell phone—
with FedEx in no hurry,
nothing left
to refresh-obsess over.
What’ll I do
with all this time?
Not that this is about me—
or is it?
By the power of Strunk & White,
have mercy,
I hope
I can take at least
partial credit.
I’ll claim it;
otherwise,
it's just me
stuck, sucking up
oxygen
wondering if
I was ever worth the breath.
Maybe I'm kidding myself.
Bliss doesn’t
make good story,
won't keep people
around,
interested
in words, no matter
how much need
brays
from their every sentence.
We’re all donkeys and liars,
living up to our pages
versions of ourselves,
cross-bred
sociability, mouths full
of bad faith, hiding
halitosis and worse teeth.
But here's the thing:
I’ve spent far too long learning
to spell
my own name,
cutting grammar's corners
closer to the curb
than recommended,
earning the space to say—
whatever. the. hell. I. want.
I'm surprised more
people aren't tired
of playing,
pretending not to have a need
to edit, to rehab
the edges
of their worst selves—
bigger shame though
that they don't sell
breath mints
to cover the stink of disagreeable
personalities.
Today's a day
I could use one,
for a few of mine.
Copyright ©
Jaymee Thomas
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