A loser on my own terms by Sissy Buckles

 

And that time I was so mad
I actually cried because you went
with your high-toned white entitled
power elite political crowd after the
muckety-muck press conference
where everybody had to stand up
from the intimidatingly long banquet table
when their name was called
evocative of da Vinci’s Last Supper
and all the fancy dinner parties
that you never have always
spouting off about the proletarians
like you really know
something about struggle,
the group ending in an upscale
organic veggie restaurant
in the trendy part of town
and dropped a grand on lunch alone
so ticked off I steamed chirping tires
like a righteous smoking bleach burnout
downtown on the noon work break to
my favorite grungily conserved
1950s diner off Broadway
the one I sorrowfully recognized
that you’d never go to with me
because you don’t eat meat
feverishly plopping down on a
cheap cherry red Naugahyde booth
disheveled as usual in vintage shopped
beaded cashmere cardie and
leopard print rockabilly creepers
ordered cup of bitterly hot black coffee
served in chipped old white crockery
and innocent small talk
from the sweet and skanky
manic-panic cotton candy pink-haired
waitress with the dangling
skull earrings and kanji tattoo
on the inside of her wrist
who smiled conspiratorially
and first pulled out a smartphone
from her pocket and showed me
a photo of her kid smashing
a birthday pinata and told me about
the louse of an ex who left her
for a younger beautician before
bringing me a medium rare
junior cheese burger in a basket
with dill pickle slice and piping hot
crispy beer-battered onion rings
fried light enough so there’s still
a bit of a snap then smothered
in Heinz ketchup on the side
my only companion a dog-eared
City Lights pocket poet book
and scrawled up spiral journal
set next to mismatched silverware
and a white paper napkin on
the timeworn formica table
my mind’s eye already sketching
the suited up people scurrying by to oh
so important places through foggily
begrimed front picture window
along with the woebegone gang of
temporary comrades huddling
together at the counter
slopping down greasy hash house
wonders, propped up by baked
from scratch peach pie under glass
because buddy, we’re all
sad and empty inside,
and here I sit, still wincing
from the withering sarcasm
you reserve just for me,
soul-crushing, cutting
my thoughts off at the knees,
leaving me with just one,
that maybe
the fucked it up again club
ain’t such a bad place after all,
now feeling resigned, clinging to the
small and silly consolation that
at least I have a nice ass,
ate the whole shebang like Marilyn
polishing off that fried egg breakfast
in Huston’s 1961 film The Misfits
Clark Gable honestly admiring
her robust appetite “Hey, you
really go all out don’t you?
Even the way you eat, I like that”
then it’s back to the old treadmill
not forgetting to tip an extra
ten bucks to my hostess for dishing up
some much needed soul food
along with her generous hospitality.

5 Responses to “A loser on my own terms by Sissy Buckles”

  1. Unsubscribe me please. Thank you!

    >

  2. ssybuckles@aol.com Says:

    Scot, not sure but from my end looks like the last two lines may have been inadvertently omitted. ten bucks to my hostess for dishing up – some much needed soul food – along with her generous hospitality. thanks for including me, really appreciate all you do. best, sissy

  3. Well You subscribed–you will have to unfollow–don’t think I can do that for you..sorry

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