prferring form to truth

prferring form to truth

A Poem by Philip Gaber


My x-girl, with her hair, getting twenty hours
of unstoppable volume, and her face getting
the deepest-feeling clean available just got
her PhD from Berkeley last month, and now
she's driving a cab.
Her pops had to file
bankruptcy as a result of sending the
apple-of-his-astigmatic-eye through eight years
of "I'm not really sure what I wanna do."

Her moms said, "Well, she obviously lives in a
post love-in, post be-in kind of world."

I hear she's been going to clubs and getting
trashed a lot lately.

"I'm a fatalist," she once told me.  "Most Irish
Catholics are like this.  You play the hand you're
given, and you do the best you can.  If you're always
worried about, what if this happens, what if that
happens, then you miss the joy of life."

That was the night I lost it and spilled Jack Daniels
all over her trendy V-neck blouse and set fire to it and
flung it out the window.

"What in f**k's name were you thinking," she kept
yelling over and over.  Then she threw a frozen pork chop
at me and knocked out two of my teeth, took my last Michelob,
flipped me off, and flagged a cab.

I didn't call her for two weeks.

When I attempted to extend the olive branch, I approached
her front door with a dozen red roses and an apology.

Even though I knew she was there, she wouldn't answer the door.

At least her Acura was there, and her cockapoo was cowering in
her doghouse and I could hear her stereo blasting Alanis Morissette.

© 2024 Philip Gaber


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Added on June 9, 2024
Last Updated on June 9, 2024

Author

Philip Gaber
Philip Gaber

Charlotte, NC



About
I hate writing biographies. I was one of those kids who rode a banana seat bike and watched Saturday morning cartoons and Soul Train. But my mother would never buy any of those sugary cereals for us k.. more..

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