It Is Over, Four Leaf Clover

Don’t yell fire in the theater.
Just do your job and
sweep the leaves into the moat,
a bad stew crafted with
painstaking precision.

Lower your voice
when you’re cross,
when she crosses you.
When she says,
“I hate your beard,”
when she says,
“Where did Dave Chappelle go?,”
lose the attitude.
Order penne with vodka.
Say “I’ll have the house dressing,”
but don’t say
“there’s too much oregano in my marinara,”
even if it’s true.

Your love is as
awkward as an aardvark,
misshapen,
a postage stamp, baby,
with no tongue for it.

Or it’s violet,
the tongue,
a snack in a tin,
a snippet.

“Do more,” she says.
“Rock the casbah!”
Stop, and then begin.
Stop, and then begin.
Laugh your way to pain,
you sore narrator,
when she says,
“You forgot your teeth!”

It is over, four leaf clover.
Count your blessings when she says,
“Please cancel my subscription.”
No more Ted Williams,
Jon Bon Jovi,
The Food Network.
No more “We watch Dazed and Confused in earnest.”
No more “I’ve never seen Mean Girls.”

Stop, and then begin.
Stop,
and then begin.

“Twins was a decent movie,” she says.

Really?!?

Don’t yell fire in the theater.