Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Poem #72 of 365

Carrie this, Carrie that.

I watch her type the
life's cruel joke
or paradoxical question
for the episode.

And I am growing weary
of her pedantic murmurs,
the frantic asides
between Manhattan mixed drinks.

Yet I also have moments
of fascination, which I honor
and anticipate within the
30-minute spurts.

It gives satisfaction, I
suppose, to know that
I didn't have to type no
damn column to figure
out whether I'm lonely
or just horny.

copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

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