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Poetry
Pope Loco Sandia XXIII
She Ain't No Hutch Bunny
What is the term for when your heart drops into your
stomach and a wave of sad realization washes over and into
you like a cleansing shower of Lethe water supervised by
Charon? When you feel as if you have missed a chance that
was your only one. When the girl walks away because you
have nothing to say, since everything that comes to mind is
somehow wrong and will not improve the situation between
you. The feeling that all of your breath has been gently tugged
away and dropped off at some camp for learning-disabled
Christians. That gut reaction that drops you to your proverbial
knees and makes you want to beg for any response, because
you know that she has nothing to say either. When facial
expressions become your only conversation, and you glance
over and over again at the cigarette that has burned to the
filter and burns your fingers because you can not keep your
gaze steady into hers. With quiet and casual thunder she tells
you that she is going for a cup of coffee and turns to leave you
as a leaf shaking dead, then in the headlights of some
oncoming chimney crash. She walks away with beautiful ease
and you can only stare after her, flesh blistering because the
cigarette that burns between your fingers is as distant a
memory as escaping mother's womb. After eight paces she
turns to you and asks, "Are you coming?" She is your
Hyzenthlay.