Syzygy
Here I am again,
spending another productive night at home
making love to a bottle of cream sherry as if
my liver has consented to the act,
wondering if there really are only five people
connecting me to Kevin Bacon.
Then the neighbors in the apartment above me
set the stage for their usual Friday night drama.
Convincing as always, she opens the scene,
reads from her stale script:
Get out you son of a bitch!
I hate you!
With ever-impeccable timing and characteristic aplomb,
he delivers his hackneyed lines in response:
But sweetness, I said I’m sorry.
I promise I’ll never do it again.
And just above the din of their bravado performances,
Bessie Smith burdening her own lover with the blues:
You’ve been a good ol’ wagon honey,
but you done broke down.
Not being a fan of reruns or sequels,
I yawn as the couple screams toward the conclusion,
blessed “FIN” that means it’s safe to shut my eyes.
Fear not invited eavesdroppers, nothing is wrong here.
This is just one of the periodic pilgrimages
we all make over the shifting soil of faith.
This night will end for them, like all others,
in a pool of sexual sweat,
the universally-recognized proxy for resolution–
their orgasmic howling under the voyeuristic moon,
their bed thumping its Morse code on my weary ceiling:
Situation Normal, All’s Forgiven Upstairs.
- James R. Whitley
