Archive 02/09/12 - (2)

 

   

Girls' Night Out

                                                                  

 

Two terribly apparent observations strike the casual diner and regular,

Upon his/her setting foot in the aromatic, garlic-saturated atmosphere

Of Trattoria Cinque Terre Grille, Bar, & Sports Lounge:

 

The oversize meat-market saloon, up front, is a rush-hour subway car,

Crammed with seated females poised-to-devour hovering males,

That's swaying rattle-trap crazy, hurtling them from work, to happy hour,

 

Each praying that she/he, instantaneously, if not sooner,

At the stroke of lightning's Cinderella-like good-fortune midnight,

Will fall head-over-glass-slippered-heeltap in love, with Mr.(Ms.) Prince(ss),

 

Be absolved of having to continue making the purgatorial rounds,

Bedding down with every eligible bounder and roundheels in town,

Until the day comes when a wedding relieves them of their philandering,

 

Locates the lucky couple at monogamous boredom's ground zero,

For the rest of their two-progeny pedestrian destinies

Or until, happily, gratefully, premature infidelity and divorce intercede . . .

 

The bar and, secondly, the tables and booths of the dining room itself,

Filled, to the hilt, predominantly (exclusively?), with young women

Frantically busy, cross-pollinating their ideas, opinions, notions,

 

Their sensitivities and gossip and tell-all confessions,

Back and forth, wagging tongue to loose lip, wineglass by wineglass,

Confiding intimate soul-disclosures they'd never tell their husbands.

 

But where are the sturdy, steadfast, strapping, ever-faithful menfolk,

To safeguard the sanctity of their "missuses," "old ladies," "better halves,"

Who gather here, nightly ad infinitum, in numbers, droves, multitudes?

If only I, a frequent patron of this very olive-oil-and-garlic-infused air,

Could offer a clue as to these peculiarly confusing doings,

I would, with the candor of Oprah, Tyra Banks, Sarah Jessica Parker . . .

 

And in truth, at my ripe, wisdom-laden age of eighty-eight and two days,

Having been married a Biblical seven times, to seven brides —

Harridans, termagants, shrews, viragoes, scolds, dare I say "cunts," all —

 

I can and might as well do so: without fail, the male and female genes

Are as opposite as chimpanzees and rhinoceroses, and when they breed,

They give birth to Rorschach blobs, questions marks, and feces.

 

      

 

 

 

 

02/09/12 - (2)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
       

 

 

 
   
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