holding up an apple to the light,
looking for
brown spots
when
my friend Jimmy
calls me
from Venice, Italy.
yo, dude.
you've got to come here,
he says.
man, the babes
are wild over here.
he sends me a picture of him
on a gondola
drinking a glass
of wine,
with some woman he just met,
named Bridgette
under his arm.
she's got a friend that's just
your type.
a complete
psychopath with blonde hair.
what are you doing, he says.
i can hear
the chatter of Italian
and broken English, someone
is telling him to sit
down, he's rocking the boat.
i'm buying an apple,
i tell him,
i can't decide, honey crisp,
or granny green.
maybe a pear, i haven't had a pear
in ages.
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