PINSTRIPED

I sweep and I clean and I swish.

I don't do much else.

Sometimes I wash windows,

but only when the pinstripes tell me to.

They think they all fancy and high class with their

brassy nameplates and stainless steel mocha mugs

and their "just put it on my tab" attitude.

Sittin' on their behinds like they's the bees knees

and I'm the bee-hind that don't matter one bit.

You know what I want?

I want to march right up to those pinheads

and give 'em a piece of my mind.

They think they can walk around like what I do don't matter.

If I had enough gravy, I would walk out

and show those fellas what they're missing.

I ain't goin' to, but don't you doubt that I don't have guts,

'cause I do. And don't you forget it.

If I had one of them pinkies,

I'd do much more than just wave it in the air like a magic wand.

I would hold it up like a sword

and scream at the top of my lungs,

a battle cry, uvula shaking and all.

I'd have those pinstripes shaking in their tighty whities,

knees buckling, begging for mercy.

And would I give it to them?

I don't think so. If I ain't got a say,

then theys not allowed to talk either.

They take away my voice,

and I'll take away theirs.

My mama taught me that karma's a bee with an itch,

and quite frankly, my honey's runnin' short.

BRUNCH

all around the mulberry bush-

first glance: her friend.

second glance: still her friend.

third glance: her.

your first day in a 101 class.

fifty minutes fly by. end of lecture.

end of your first encounter.

second day in the 101 class.

fifty minutes drag. homework. end of lecture.

tuesday morning passes.

fifth day in the 101 class.

twenty-three minutes in,

you stop listening to your professor

and lose yourself in wistful thoughts.

eyes wander. they settle on her

and you can't help but think,

damn. i want to invite her to brunch.

you kick yourself. who has brunch?

end of lecture.

an hour before your 101 class.

you tell your roommate about her.

he tells you to stop being a pussy.

you tell him to shove it.

five minutes after your 101 class.

you start walking towards her

but stop because your palms are sweaty.

she might think sweaty palms are gross.

end of day twenty.

your tenth to last day in the 101 class.

you drop your pencil near her desk daily.

today was no different.

you blush profusely. she smiles.

fifty minutes pass. end of lecture.

two minutes after your 101 class.

she says "hey". you say "hey".

she asks "why haven't you asked me out yet?"

the monkey chased the weasel-

your eighteenth brunch together.

yeah, brunch.

you get waffles. she gets cocoa.

you split a muffin.

you gently saw your meal into bite-size pieces

and ask her the dreaded question: "what are we?"

she pauses, takes another sip, her eyes unchanged.

"we're brunch buddies."

"oh."

"may i have a bite?" she asks.

you slide the ceramic dish to her.

"thanks." she takes a bite.

"do you want to have dinner?"

"that's not brunch."

"no, it's dinner."

"i see."

"so?"

"okay. i could do dinner."

end of conversation.

you've been at walmart for ten minutes,

touching flower petals and glancing in black bins,

contemplating roses or the assorted bunch, whatever that means.

roses are classically romantic,

but assorted screams diversity.

it also screams cheapskate.

you go for the roses.

you haven't worn this shirt since high school.

it was your lucky one, the one for game day.

you text her and ask for her location.

she tells you, "who says location anymore?"

you can't remember where her dorm is.

she meets you at yours. you open the door,

hand her the flowers and she tells you she's allergic.

you think, damn. should've stuck with brunch.

your twenty-third movie together.

it's an action movie. she whispers, "what are we?"

and takes your hand. you squeeze it and say,

"what do you want to be?"

someone in the row behind you says that he wants you

to shut up. she just laughs and focuses her eyes on the screen.

it's the end of the night. she leads you to her dorm room and

gives you permission to kiss her.

you think, score!

the monkey stopped to pull up his sock-

the morning after is neither brutal

nor groggy. not awkward. not intimate.

the moment your eyes open

and see her lumbering body,

you remember last night's events.

interlocked wires becoming two,

loosely hanging from bare shoulders

like heart-shaped leaves from a catalpa branch.

lingering grazes. hot electricity. longing.

you dress yourself.

fumble with nimble buttons,

shake out the wrinkles in your trousers.

you look back at her.

she's wrapped in herself.

her torso hovering over her legs,

arms crossed, slightly goosebumped when you left.

as you head for the door, you stop,

wondering if you should kiss her goodbye.

just one on the forehead to make it less dirty.

you don't, thinking your buddies would call you lame.

as you make the walk of shame back to your car,

you instantly regret it. turn off the engine. lock your doors.

open her fridge and make brunch.

pop! goes the weasel-

you don't know how to feel.

you know how she feels.

i know how she feels.

everyone knows how she feels.

"get this thing out of me," she shrieks,

sweat dripping down her contorted face.

we know not to take her words seriously.

she spits out expletives in the heat of the moment.

you feel her hand squeezing the life out of you,

but that's okay because she's squeezing

my life out of her.

she tells you that she hates you.

over and over again.

you see the pained love in her

determined eyes, and you say,

"i love you too" over and over again.

but you're mute next to her decibel ninety screams.

i tunnel out, taking after her with her wails.

heavy breaths. more tears.

a choir of oohs and ahhs resonate

throughout your jumbled mind.

she squeezes your hand again

and you share a look that says,

"this is ours."

they tell you congratulations

and all of the little details that

you'll be forced to remember later on.

but cradle me in your arms and say,

"just in time for brunch."