you pick the newspaper
up from the front porch,
looking up and down
the street for nothing
really, just looking
as the cold air rushes
up against your legs
and down the long
blousey sleeves of
your silk pajamas.
sockless you stamp
your feet and bring
the paper in and stare
at the front page. it's
all about you. your name
in bold black ink is
the headline. it exclaims
that you are in love again,
and you blink, you shake
your head, could this
news be true. details
within. A-10, you turn
the pages, the metro
section declares where
you parked last night
how the meter ran out
of quarters as you sat
drinking and eating
a lobster roll at the
bar with your new fing,
your panamanian paramour.
they have a picture of
her blocking her face
with her white purse.
the financial section shows
a graph of your bank
statements, what has
come in and what is
about to go out as the
IRS leans in with pincers
and cashed checks pinned
onto their white shirted
chests. and the style
section talks about what
you wore, jeans again
and a nice white shirt
from the gap, buttoned
down and starched,
untucked, your new chocolate
leather coat that repels
spilled martinis, and
new shoes. always with
the new shoes. and the sport's
section shows you lifting
weights in the basement,
doing push ups, sit ups,
looking at yourelf in
the mirror pinching the
side of your belly, measuring
the fat of you. getting
ready. they show you on
your bike pedaling
the lake, cold bitten,
and gloved. your lips
blue against the winter
sky. the food
section is the shortest
section of all. a picture
of a frying pan and three
eggs are all you see.
uncracked and rolling
like stones in the black
flat pan. a salt and
pepper shaker stand by.
you skip the obituaries,
after all you are still
here, but you can't fathom
how the paper has done
this, how they have
reported your life in
detail, so clearly for all
to read about and see,
you are stunned,
but you call up
and subscribe, you can't
wait for tomorrow's news,
to know more, to see a new
headline, because
it's all about me.
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