ADAM AND EVE ON A RAFT, WRECK ‘EM

The cup’s on the counter.
Your lipstick’s on the rim.
The whole day’s shot to hell.
My job and your tumbled papers
swept aside, I sit down
on the corner stool. I used to kiss you
here, and there. We used to make each other
hungry. After us I was not intact
but I was complete as long as
the lipstick stayed in my head
and wasn’t smeared all over.

I take a drink, get
lipstick on the rim of my teeth.
You never used your teeth but
you always let me know
they were there, and now
they are not. I’m left with tears
and left hooks.
I’m counter
help in hell — short order joint, learning to wash the
dishes, make sure all the
stains are gone.

Boss, I’m not up to the job
of dealing with this.
Fire me. I’ll collect
thoughts
for a while.

I’ll never be able to hold this job.
I’m too numb to quit. Boss,
tell me I’m fired.
Tell me to make like an egg and
scramble. Tell me
I’m gone.