The beer’s flowing, and, high in the driver’s seat
of an ice resurfacing machine, I’m tipsy in tea-length chiffon.
I’m tired of being good.
I shall embark on a pattern of mild infractions.
I shall give out my sought-after phone number—
perhaps to that strapping groomsman I spied from the car
as the wedding party poured from the church.
(We’d missed the ceremony, having stopped at Friendly’s
en route, but the bride was too happy to notice.)
The tent under the stars, the unlocked hockey rink—
Whee! I tour the ice! Blushing like a bride—
I’m absurd, but I’ve got moxie! Even better,
I’ve an audience: five college classmates
rolling joints in the bleachers. “Hey you guys!”
They don’t look up. Sans onlookers, then.
I’m feeling sorry for myself now. . . No boyfriend,
and I have to work in the morning.
I hate my job and my boss, too.
Can I make figure eights? I can’t. Speed, goddamn it!
“Come on!” someone yells; they get up and go. What the hell?
I’m steering a hijacked vehicle around a hockey rink
on a Saturday night in rural Connecticut. Fuck Connecticut.
I grew up in this state and got out as fast as I could.
My stockings itch. This thing is a beached whale.
It was funny five minutes ago.
Weddings? Please! As soon as we got to church
I wanted to go home to Brooklyn.