Almost

By Randall Mann

One last meal, family-style —

no family, and with suspect style.

November first, my almost-groom

fresh off his flasher costume

discharge at the office. Harris tweed.

I read it on his antisocial feed.

The motel life is all a dream —

we were, as they say, living the dream.

I appreciate our quandary,

hot-plate dates and frowsy laundry.

Face tattoos are never a good sign.

I hope his tumor is benign.

I won’t forget the time he lent

me Inches, which I gave up for Lent.

Our love was threat, like phantom pain.

An almost-plan for a bullet train.

I’m weaning myself off graphic tees,

not taking on any new disease.

I walk along Pier 5 to kill the myth,

of course another stab at myth.

I pull my output from the shelf

and wildly anthologize myself.

I’ve adopted another yellow lab.

I hope to die inside this cab.

My lack of faith is punctuation —

no wait, the lack of punctuation.

Every intonation, one more pact

with injury; my latest one-act:

“Flossing in Public.”

In the spattered glass of the republic.

Source: Poetry (October 2015)