Too Stoned for Cannoli

A Poem

Photo by Louis Hansel on Unsplash

“COME OVER RIGHT NOW,” she shouts through the phone.
“He’s tall, and interesting, and cuter than fuck.”
I’m dressed in my comfy Target loungewear,
Watching reruns of “The Good Witch,”
So I hop in the shower and wear a cute
Outfit and drive briskly and SHOW UP.
Ninety percent of life is showing up, said the
Filmmaker Woody Allen, not one of my heroes.
But dammit, I SHOW UP.

He is tall — but all other bets are off, immediately,
When my clear blue eyes meet his bloodshot orbs
Across the room. He does not stand to greet me.
He does not look away from his companions when
I stand awkwardly, waiting to introduce myself.
I wait for a break in the conversation, which does not come.
Bracelets jingling, I reach my long arm up, up, up
To the top shelf of the cabinet, withdraw a wine glass,
And meet my friend’s excited gaze with skepticism.

“You’re too picky,” she says, as she fills my glass with Chianti.
Sighing, I wander out to the patio, make the…