Customary international law dictates the following:
“I should drive you to Logan for a sweet sham adieu
thereby closing our negotiations on a professional note.”
But you read a sign somewhere back there warning drivers
not to put much stock in formal structures since
the truth they can be presumed to tell depends in
no small part on annual funding by finicky taxpayers.
You scratch your head before stating:
"As a result of some ungodly accident, my plans have been
undone by an act of sabotage perpetrated by my memory.”
I honk on cue, inquiring:
“Hast Thou left hanging behind the interview-essential suit
within the dark confines of the hotel closet? Didst Thou recall
the specific ink-stained flourish required to legitimize the deal?
Art Thou happy with my holy-moly respect-producing verbiage
with reference to its effect on your sacred masculinity?”
You frown:
“Is it necessary to commit the crime
of fraud against the sin of courtesy?”
Observing the potential for straight-line winds, I nod, declaring:
“Customer appreciation is always critical.”
Cloud colors approximate those of desert-bleaches carcasses.
The national security surrounding us is bountiful and vast.
I tell you:
“Fate has good things in store for you, Big Boy. Certainly,
she has reassigned your flight to bring you nearer to that
sublime sample of femininity known as the ideal mate
and surely she will give you the window seat give up
anything you ask, all the while her well-brushed
teeth sparkling like a Windex commercial.”
You reply:
"Fate is what I fight alongside faith.”
The red neon ticker announces:
“A Rawlsian injustice continues to bring passengers back
to a false goodbye seasoned with stoicism and the peakish
immorality of conviction. Watch for pedestrians and puppies.”
A traffic cop waves a golden yellow sunbeam towards us
before turning to salute the smog. As she turns,
you read the words on her jacket aloud to me:
“Traffic interferes with your carefully-plotted haste.
For those lacking prospects, you have only time to waste.”
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