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George Costanza Doesn't Love Me

You left me with a lap of microwave popcorn
and a 2-hour series finale urge to urinate.
I stare at your bald head & hairy back
wishing I was your shirt 100% cotton;
the lemon yellow stains beneath the pits
of your arms to go with the toupee-
sales ticket still attached from
Susie's Hair Salon & Tanning.

Excuse me George, but can I have your autograph,
Why don't you join me and my parents for pork chops & peas?
We're having Fig Newtons for desert?
Take me to one of your movie premieres.
Introduce me to your wife, kids seven & nine.

I faithfully tune in to 180
episodes of you undressing every blond with your eyes.
You prove your love with heart shaped boxes of chocolates.
Shove 12 dozen roses in my face.
The thorns catch on my eyelids.

Where were you?
I kept calling. Left message after message
Did you receive my letters?
I lingered at the front gate of your mansion
waiting in a Chevy Nova
as your wife slept peacefully
in her cucumber face mask-
as your children drifted
in sugar plum dreams.

Waited for you in a window seat
of Melba's Pit Bar-B-Cue
as you walked through the door
in your red satin pajamas.

You look different without your glasses,
thinner in the blue bath
robe I bought you for Christmas
when we feasted on store-bought turkey.
I basted your body with giblet gravy on the floor
under the kitchen table while your wife
took the kids to her mother's,
when you pretended to be sick.

As you heard her at the front French doors,
the click-clack of heels
on the finest marble flown in from
Italy, you tossed me my shirt and shoes
urging me to exit from the servant entrance.
You shoved me in the bathroom of green aftershave,
clear sticks of under arm deodorant,
trash cans stuffed with maxi-pads
and glow in the dark band-aids.

I fuss with my shirt stained with your star-studded semen.
Tuck underwear in the back pocket of my acid washed
jeans and sprint to my car parked behind your
forest green BMW you bought after box office
blockbuster success of Pretty Woman.

You don't love me George Costanza.
You're ashamed to be seen with a fairy
at the Emmy's.
But you adore me when I'm ass naked
in a hotel room of Red Roof Inn-

when my mouth is gagged with leather
and wrists are bound
by handcuffs you borrowed
off the set of Law and Order.

You tell me I'm the one you love
as your wife's away at another fundraiser
and we lie together on your polar bear rug.
A bowl of uncooked kernels positioned between
our naked bodies.

According to you, I'm the only man you will ever love.

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