|Apr/May 2008 Poetry|
Pepsi and a Package of Planter's Salted Peanuts
Five hour drive dodging trucks and traffic,
stupid drivers and old people
putt-putt-putting along in the rain.
We arrive, finally, check in to the Holiday Inn Express
off Exit 9 of the New Jersey Turnpike.
Before anything, I hang up my clothes.
I used to be an "on the road" salesman,
and the first thing you learn
in sales is the first thing you do
when you check in to a hotel
is hang up your clothes.
Then I bought a Pepsi from the vending machine,
I prefer Coke, but sometimes
there isn't a choice in life, and a one-ounce package
of Planter's Salted Peanuts,
pulled my shoes off, put my feet up,
ate the salted peanuts and drank the Pepsi,
the room quiet and dim as a mausoleum at dusk,
and wondered if I had ever felt this good.
She calls me at work,
8 in the morning, early for her, her voice
sleepy still, soft and sexy, sounding
like Lauren Bacall or Eva Gardner
must've sounded way back when.
"Oh, it's you. I dialed the wrong number."
You always feel a little let down
when someone says that to you.
"Well, who were you calling
so early in the morning
when you're normally sleeping?"
Slow response, she's not fully awake yet.
"Just some work thing,
see you later." And she hangs up
leaving me wondering
about what other life she might be leading.
Secret lives get exposed all the damn time.