Back to Shane Allison's Artist PageTo the Artist's Page                  Back to the Unlikely Stories home pageTo our home page
pissTo Shane Allison's previous piece     George Costanza Doesn't Love MeTo Shane Allison's next piece

Grown Men

Like a steel wall,
a stubborn bull,

there's no getting through to you.
You have become unhinged,

loosened like a bloody tooth.
I might as well talk to myself to the walls
of shopping malls.

I write out fifth anniversary invitations
on the kitchen counter imported from Italy
while snacking on Doritos.

We discuss our eight-hour days
over mashed potatoes and meatloaf,

and the fact that you're balding, stomach-ulcered,
liver-spotted boss still hasn't given you a raise.

I wake up to horn blowing traffic
and the smoke alarm of bacon burning.

You tell me you'll be a little late as you
grab your coat and the keys to the hunter green BMW.

Suitcase is left behind on the ugly coffee table
picked out at a garage sale

that I lied and said would
look great in the living room

between the sofa we make occasional love on
and the floor model TV.

I hate it when you leave me naked in bed
without a kiss goodbye
with Donahue and his guests:

"Teenage Prostitutes
and  Their Pimps"
as my morning companions.

To the top of this pageTo the top of this page