I’m now going to flip to one of my notebooks and find something for writing inspiration:
Here’s what I found:
“host a dinner party—rude guest gets a bill”
“Billing William” – an impromptu poem
It was salty but it felt right
When I excused myself
From my own party
From my own table
–The one my ex picked out but my 2nd thinks I bought myself–Shh!
I tore a sheet
Out of this old notebook I keep
It was meant for story notes, or words about spring, or love
But it turned out to be random comments about the shit on TV
Or the twits at work
And one gut-punching letter I once wrote when I was a dad-to-be for a few weeks
But this time, I got super snarky.
William was invited
Though I should have known this might happen.
He sucks when he drinks–literally and street-talk-ly
He’s worse than Sober Will
No willpower powers Will
Enough, I tell myself. Focus.
I stared at my own eyes in the upstairs bathroom
And made horizontal lines on the page.
His shit comments during dinner. Passive aggressively telling me well done
Erases flavor, and that all cooks say it’s so.
The meal we prepared was well received by everyone else.
And Gwen didn’t seem to care that Baron lit up without asking.
But Bill and his shit comments pushed me. High road no more.
The steak was about ten bucks
The veggies a little less
Let’s call it seventeen-fifty
And that’s a modest guess
I smile at the bill I’ve made for Bill and his bulbous gut,
He’s not amused, feels abused, then slams my front door shut.
You did what, Gwen asks, and I give her the truth
Baron smacks his knee and unknowingly ashes on the carpet
That had been installed a week earlier.
Dessert? I suggest, but no one’s interested.
Suddenly, the house feels eerily empty without Will’s shit comments.
Who’s the new dolt if the old one’s gone?