Monday, July 6, 2015

Too Much Catsup

You have no palate, she tells me.
You’re supposed to taste the fries, not just the ketchup.
I object immediately to her spelling;
I always say “catsup” instead
But she rolls over me and continues heaping scorn on my head

You have no future, she tells me.
You’re too far behind to ever catch up.
I’m caught off guard by the change of subject
We’re just here eating a meal
But she lays into me deeper, heedless of how it makes me feel

You get on my nerves too much, she tells me
Our hopes and dreams don’t match up.
I realize she’s taken this opportunity to dump me
And I cast my eyes down at my food
Hopelessly hoping that the next bite might improve my mood

I guess what I’m saying is, we’re done, she says
And before I can respond, she gets up.
Maybe this is better, I try to rationalize
As tears, unbidden, well up in my eyes
But regretting, nonetheless, that you can never un-catsup over-catsuped fries.

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