I heard a poem about you once. This was a year ago, and you were dead to me then. Sorry. I was in a corner trying to hold a camera steady, my right elbow nestled snug in my left palm, filming the Poet because He asked me to. Neil sat next to me scribbling away in his black little notebook that he carried everywhere in his dirty peacoat. He took notes on the Poet’s presentation in that shitty chicken-scratch that he wrote me a sad letter with five months later, as if Neil could write poems. I tried to ignore him while I sat there, uncomfortable, filming your ex. He was talking about you and how horrible you were but I wasn’t really listening anyway cuz everything about breakups reminded me of Saun and that’s who I was thinking about right then. I don’t even know why; Saun is the most fucking boring man on the planet. I never wrote poems for Neil but I wrote all the time for Saun. Maybe I created interest where I saw none.
The Poet kept going on, telling us how you were a piece of shit. I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t listen. Something about bumblebees. His friend continued to strum her –or their, I don’t fucking know– guitar louder and louder, and the flowers all around the white gallery space didn’t help the piece become any less melodramatic. A smirk began to form at the edge of His mouth as He spoke, and He said something clever and I could see Neil nodding up and down in my peripherals as if he and the Poet were alone in the room and only they understood one another’s pain as poets and they’d bond over syntax and pentameter and sonnets and snapping fingers and they’d end up bottoming each other so hard. I tried not to notice; I was still guilty over thinking about Saun. “Your Soul Is Orange,” what kind of a title was that? Souls don’t have colors. Mine doesn’t.
The Poet finished up and thanked everyone and we all stood up and praised Him like He was a Messiah and we all thought about how much that man that broke his heart must’ve really sucked and after the show He came up to me and thanked me for filming and Neil lauded His work as He paid me back the ten dollars I spent at the door so basically I worked for free. Neil thought this was hilarious.
We left the building after getting sick of all the queer pricks, and Neil squeezed my hand and told me I did a good job like I was some kid that didn’t know better than him. He wanted to take me out to celebrate at that fancy restaurant I always wanted to go to but when we got there it turned out to be full and a bitchy waitress told us we should’ve made reservations. We did so and one week later we were sitting in that same restaurant, near empty in our reserved seats. We wore cheap blazers and crappy scarves and we felt like morons, or at least I did. I could see across the room a family of swaggots and Seahawks fans and sophistication kinda left me at that point. Neil had some sort of cheese soup –you couldn’t eat it– and I had a duck. Not a paste made from duck livers like what you told me about the other day just a duck. I wondered if the Poet ever ate ducks and then I thought about Saun again. Saun loved ducks. And cars. And the color orange. Saun was so stupid. But this turned me to a foul mood anyway and I started a fight between me and my boyfriend and he called me arrogant and I called him pretentious and
I wondered if I had made the right choice.
I wonder if I should have listened to that poem.
I wonder if there are poems about me.
Bumblebee, but more like a wasp.