Hopefuls
by Quincy Lehr
I saw you through reflecting glass
and lipstick smears of wine,
and even though drunk off my ass,
I knew that you were mine.
And you were slender, circumspect,
a grin that went ajar
between the Calvinists’ elect
and that prick Baudrillard.
We traded numbers (as one does)
and staggered to the train,
fondling bits of pocket fuzz
and mumbling to the rain—
a faded song, the chorus weak
and warbled out of tune.
A kiss goodnight flicked past my cheek.
I think I slept till noon,
dreaming about an old TV,
an outsized golden cup—
and I saw you… and I saw me,
perennial runners-up
exposed to unexpected glares
of cameras and eyes
unseen but sensed. But I was there
and scant feet from the prize.
A thousand scared contestants
are waiting for the chop.
The priests will don their vestments
although it’s only pop.
It’s vapid, but I like it.
Hear the critics groan.
Hoist the sail, then strike it.
I don’t think we’re alone.