Mongolia Poem

What are you up to?

I saw you in Mongolia

and remembered someone I offended.

A lot of people have the same name,

but that was her name; the same

as it was when she hit on me at work.

A lot of languages sound similar,

and people are ticked about that too,

but what are we supposed to do about it?

“Thank you,” “hello,” “coffee,” and “bus”

are self-explanatory like Maoism.

Your face has gotten shinier somehow;

I thought the opposite was the usual case.

I bet a salmon puree mask would do wonders.

I am still waiting for the opportunity to tell you

I don’t do trips like yours,

but please don’t think I just sit around’

glass is something you have to take care of,

which isn’t true at all

unless you’re antsy about dust.

You could have been one of those people

famous for “gritty” photographs of rural America:

the fly-over bits that museum goers can gawk at.

You could write an artist’s statement about it

on the back of a diner napkin

half made of asbestos, j/k.

I’ve got a lot more ideas where that came from;

that’s what friends are for when you don’t have a job.

As your wife, it’s my job to give you a new vision

of the future (one without house music

and your glasses fogging up).

You could take up complaining as a hobby

or maybe a side-hustle, which will be the new

word of the day soon; it’s coming, and I’ve got a bet

on it in the office pool.

Don’t you think it’s illegal to gamble like that at the workplace?

Did I ever tell you about that guy I knew

who had inside intel that the dude from Alice in Chains

was holed up in a shed about do himself in?

My bro got in on a celebrity death pool at his huge

insurance HQ, and he won $8,000.

It just seems wrong, but you’re out with the Cossacks,

carousing and laughing it off,

and that’s one more Woody Allen joke

you just can’t make anymore, see you soon!