Information by David Spicer

If I owned a supercomputer, I’d spit
on insurance companies, eat butter pecan
ice cream in a jazz joint, wear a bathing suit,
and snatch my ex-wife. But I don’t.
Damn, I’m not Proust, words giggle at me,
they’re rosebuds in my stolen bologna.
I’m bilingual, true, but jealousy abandoned
my tree-lined countryside. I’m an alien,
collect shoelaces and other baubles.
I wait for my British skydiving instructress
in the lobby of the triplex. I love her.
I behave in my postwar flashbacks because
her heart doesn’t sit on the bench.
We’re partners, want a child in a textbook marriage.
She’s my lifelong pinup.
We’re cowboys in bed, parachute near mountains.
Wildfires fascinate us.
I’m no groupie or buffoon. We’re married,
own a farmhouse in the stormy jungle.
She plays bagpipe, I veneer pistons
and kill reptiles. We own a million medals.
Put them in the fishbowl–it’s a real status symbol.
She’s my vocation, a tall silver-haired feather merchant,
my last resort for the clinches. Elaborate, you say.
Why should I?

David Spicer has had poems accepted by or published in The American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, Reed Magazine, Circle Show, Slim Volume, Yellow Mama, Jersey Devil Press, Bad Acid Laboratories, Inc., The Kitchen Poet, and elsewhere. He is the author of one full-length collection and four chapbooks, is the former editor of raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books, and lives in Memphis, Tennessee.