Inventory
Angostura bitters
Baby carrots
Crisco
Dolmas
Extra-Fancy Organic Fruit Spread
French butter
Gruyere cheese
Homemade hummus
Italian peppers
Jalapeño-Lime Hot Sauce
Ketchup
Leftover Chinese
Mayonnaise
Nine-grain bread
Onion
Pickle relish
Quiche muffins
Reddi Wip
Salmon
Teriyaki marinade
Uncooked pork chops
Veuve Clicquot Brut Rosé
Whole-wheat sandwich thins
Eggs
Yoghurt
Zero Sugar Coke
A Friend Writes from Paris
I’m in my room, which is secluded from the street, drenched
in the weak, watery light of Paris. Two boys smoking
on the staircase off the courtyard are the only life I’ve seen
today. I have nothing but dismal, depressing news to report.
This morning I had coffee and ate the last of Aunt Esther’s
fruitcake. You mustn’t get the idea I’m starving, however;
I have bread, cheese, jam, and eggs in the cupboard. But
I’m plagued by fugitive thoughts about the delusion of love.
Yesterday, I wandered the city, homesick. I pushed open
the door of a McDonald’s and ordered fries. The counter boy
cruised me and said, Hi, I’m glad to see you. He was cute.
Serge. He super-sized me for free. Were we falling in love?
Love makes me want to push against it, to both fight and
caress it. Serge wasn’t looking for love. He was a talent agent,
when he wasn’t serving French fries to homesick Americans.
He liked my voice, told me I had a pleasing baritone.
He knew a place where amateur singers launched careers.
People like you make millions, he said. You’ll be big; money
will fatten your pockets. You’ll experience the tantalizing
effect of enthusiastic applause. You’ll need a bodyguard.
I’d never needed a bodyguard before. I imagined it would
make me feel more professional, fancier––like when
my shoes make a satisfying click-clack on the ground.
We agreed to meet at the club. I showed up––no Serge.
At McDonald’s they said he’d quit. Deflated, I came home,
lay my head on my arms, and cried in a heap on the floor.
But don’t worry; I’ll have a cheese omelet with toast and jam.
That usually gets me through the interminable Paris twilight.
Note: This poem borrows some language and imagery from these sources:
* Marky Mark, Marky Mark and Lynne Goldsmith
* No Love: Remnants of a Modern Unconsoled, Dominic Johnson
* The Diary of a Young Girl, Anne Frank
* The Flâneur, Edmund White
* The Sonic Boom, Joel Beckerman with Tyler Gray
Don Hogle has published over a hundred poems in sixty journals in the U.S., U.K., and Ireland, including Atlanta Review, BANG!, Carolina Quarterly, Chautauqua, Cider Press Review, and Penn Review. He won First Prize in the 2023 Open Poetry Competition of the National Association of Writers and Groups (U.K.). A chapbook,”Madagascar,” was published in 2020 (Sevens Kitchens Press.) He lives happily in Manhattan. www.donhoglepoet.com
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