You crack open a Bud Lite and make yet another
act of contrition . . . arm wrestling with Mallarmé's
creature of ancient and evil plumage . . .
the memory studded with the illogic of machines . . .
the stage sprayed with artificial mist . . .
The day swells with a sudden summer shower . . .
You are dumped into a grammatical cul-de-sac . . .
Snappy tourists and tourist-wannabes
dream of accompanying happenstance on a drive
along a winding coastal road . . .
highlighting your online CV with images
of past players pumping doldrums
in the mirror of an empty free-weight room
in one of the many cities you've never lived in . . .
You make a mental note to re-up your membership . . .
On second thought, you contact customer service
and ask about their return policy . . .
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