I am a jazz riff of hurt right now and all you can do is scat in my ear about how happy you are in all your suburban glory; a fucking Ella Fitzgerald of excitement at the prospect of cooking dinner in less than an apron for a gentile man 20 years your senior with the personality of boiled cabbage and the stench to match.
Trouble is neither of you can smell out of those deviated septums of never-ending summer frivolity, let alone taste how salty your god damn cous-cous has become.
And here I am: Bohemia crying back with a call to arms.
TAKE YOUR LIFE AND SHOVE IT!
I am lentils and light years ahead of you.
Peasant food I may be, but pissant I will never be.
My band only needs one fiddle, and second chair I will not fill.
We will make music that brings the listless to their feet.
Old women in stockinged toes to tap and flap their gummy elbows together in a clap that wraps against the pane glass of storm doors.
Their cacophony will wake the sleeping children out of their naps and off their backs into a parade of disjointed jigs, giggles, and wiggles as they wrestle to interpret the rhythm.
Come as you are to our show.
We're not showing off.
We said fuck the Cotillion.
We came out when we were ready.
No RSVP necessary.
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