Classic Poem

The conversation's three minutes old
and already I feel the need,
because she's pretty and gazing at me
as though I were indeed

as fascinating as I think I am
when I've taken mescaline
(or when I've had something taken
by Poetry magazine),

to introduce into the sauna
of our acquaintanceship
two cooling words — my wife — which I
let as if casually slip

into repartee about Ralph Fiennes.
It works, and I relax,
unhooked like a trash fish from her gaze.
Thank God for fatty snacks:

I run the gamut, refill my cup,
as we slowly drift apart,
I to the far corner of the gallery
to ogle the abstract art...