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jane
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Isabel wakes up at eight in the morning
To drink eight cups of coffee
And do jumping jacks next to my closed door.
She chain-smokes Marlboro Reds
And drinks Bushmills on the rocks.
As she talks eloquently and passionately about art and music,
She flips her long wavy blond mermaid hair
Over to her right shoulder.
Her red lipstick is never smudged off,
Not even on the condensing glass of whiskey.
She’ll take two tequila shots when the boys can only take one,
Like she can deactivate her tastebuds on command.
When introduced to the alpha male,
Isabel smiles with red poppy lips,
And blinks her eyelashes,
Like Venus fly traps,
And dares not mention what we call her boyfriend,
Who takes advantage of her at more vulnerable hours,
When two and three a.m. are about interchangeable.
She made him a banquet: rack of lamb,
Wasabi mashed potatoes, multi-colored tomatoes
With basil and mozzarella, drizzled lightly in olive oil vinaigrette.
She hung white tablecloths from our living room ceiling
To create the atmosphere of an opium den nook in which to eat.
She bought my favorite red wine
And used it carelessly, without tact or thought,
Not offering me a drop.
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041202
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