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?