Sunday, September 16, 2007

Just for fun

Everything in this poem really happened:

The Vegetarian

A man with red hair said
Coney Island. Birthday. Every year.
I heard Rollercoaster, shook my head


(No thank you)

and stayed in the dark party
of dancers, lithe and splendid bodies
crowding the SoHo studio.
I watched the choreographer cook,
forgot about the guy on the subway going south.

I saw him again
when dinner was served.
It was great, he said.

I hadn't tasted meat in years,
but I ate chicken.

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