![]() preferring form to truthA Poem by Philip GaberMy 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 I’ve 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 July 25, 2024 Last Updated on July 25, 2024 Author![]() Philip GaberCharlotte, NCAboutI 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..Writing
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