I’ve been looking for David Mamet
in Harvard Square
because he’s famous
and a literary guidebook
said I could find him there
between sets of overly posturing breakdancers.
(Yes, I know they’re called BBoys.)
It doesn’t really matter who David Mamet is,
whether he elegantly composes sandwiches
at Au Bon Pain
or instead hocks slightly damaged Harvard tee-shirts
to sad yet proud parents.
Either way he is constantly sealing a deal
using an abstract gritty language
that keeps my ears puckered,
listening breathlessly baited
for who is selling what to whom.
Perhaps it’s the baseball cap that tips me off.
I must have seen him wearing it before,
maybe on a dust jacket beside a quotation
saying that all the dialogue
is as he remembered it
and in this way he is my Julia Child
cooking simple peasant dishes
he knew the tastes of
before the names.
Eating Out and Then Eating In
Olive toned hand
Professional holding small washcloth
Lifts water glass
Wipes up droplets underneath.
Waiter says formally,
“We can never beat the humidity here.”
Pasta water in the palms
Waiting to be called honey
Or at least
Waiting to boil.
Closing the dishwasher
A coconut falls out Dripping Straw extended “hang in there’s just the two of us”
Pink papaya mumbles down disposal
“as long as it’s fully equipped”
Several liquids Including tea.
Propping vegetables up in the oven
Like other animated movies
I wanted to know
How many lives was I made of?
How many cramps in whose wrists?
And, was the colorist well paid? Respected?
I’ve always liked my skintone roasting,
But it was equally satisfying
To poke the rail into a wall
Without any surviving hammers.