[ The delicious, malicious irony ]
____by Lauren Hansen

The delicious, malicious irony
of our madman chats
feverishly maintaining our non-chalant airs...
(I shift positions as you speak)

My mind races
as I contemplate sex and Ezra Pound,
and I take notice of my reflection
in a stale cup of coffee
(my face is hollowing as planned)

The man next to us is fidgeting with the menu,
I think
he orders a dead cow
and a side of seasoned fries,
but we only really notice the scent of
bourgeois smoke
and the underlying incense of his personal plague.

we dance,
we dance,
we admire one another
through a secret sheet of translucent shower-paine soul.

Before I could cry
and screamshout
I surrender,
slightly whimper
as our dutiful dionysus
served up the grilled cheese special
and I smile,
remembering what our antiquated sister forgot:
you don't really like the mutated-cucumber garnish pickles.

I can't help but want to take them away
and be your mommy,
your lover...
your friend.

But instead I smile,
and vaguely allude to Salinger with a dismissive air
and a toss of my hair.