You meet a nice immigrant that fills
up space with stories about Bosnia;
fills in the gaps with New York. The
question of Alaska is melting and yes
ice cubes in your Fanta would be nice.
You perform the usual astonishment
at her skilled use of English idioms. She
smiles and spills an affinity for the Brontes.
Her hair is Crimson Tide red, protected
by trademark. She hates football but maybe
plays anything when in Rome. You are a solid
Greek graduate of togas and keg-stands who
can italicize any era into parties. She says
it is difficult to unburden yourself to men
that don't see you as separate. She's dying
her hair orange for Auburn next month.
You think middle schools should teach
physics or start earlier—and you hope she
can tell you're joking. Being hilarious.
She says it's hard to talk to men that can't
hear you. Which is strange since you'd never
disparage her accent. She says men can't hear
her ever plus never. Your hair is solid pine-trunk
brown. You ready that quip about separate
spheres ideology but the waitress drums
her nails against the menu plastic. As if
to say: You pompous old fuck, no thing is
separate & here I am, serving you anyway.
