crap, i forgot i was going to draft a poem! better get to it:

i am not nearly as published
as my dinner companion. however, he
won’t be nearly as sober

two hours from now. but until then
i twist away from him in my chair,
marionetted by an unseen master,

burning up in my leather jacket out
of embarassment. his breaths
are not mine to hear. silently

i write a formal letter of apology
to his wife in my head. i’m so sorry,
i apologize for existing. i really

meant to be a reporter, honest.
i had no intentions of bulldozing
sestinas for a living, of lying

and spying my way through
a land grant university. forgive me.

my pen scratches across the notebook

page like i am taking notes on a speaker
of great import. i aspire to woodwardness.
the only way i resemble a journalist

is in my ravenous appetite for vodka drinks.

— copyright 2005 Josette Torres