I’m at the library,
flipping through the current issue
The New Yorker
when I see an ad for an authentic European beret.
Sixteen bucks plus three for shipping
Wow . . . .
For a mere nineteen clams I can look like a neo existentialist
with a hard on for Sartre—
I think I’ll pass;
the beret only works when worn
by attractive women, skate punks, and soldiers of fortune;
you’re just another quasi bohemian douche bag
trying way too hard
to recreate a scene from a Parisian café
Greenwich Village coffeehouse.
Give it up.
Let it go.
And while you’re at it,
shave that abortion
off your chin.