I didn’t ask him to come here.
He wasn’t invited. But he took this
to mean he wasn’t uninvited either.
So he came. He stood at the shelf
grappling with the apple tarts,
rattling off statistics of dubious factual basis,
and prattling on about the storm brewing
in the brewpub. I didn’t ask him
to leave in a direct manner.
Just dropped hints here and there,
ominous suggestions that if he remained,
a storm would be a-brewin’ in here.
He ignored me, or laughed at me,
or suggested that I didn’t even know
what I wanted as if desire
could be rationalized. Granted,
I couldn’t exactly disprove this,
seeing as how if I truly didn’t know
what I desired then I wouldn’t know
that I didn’t know. Thus I came
to find myself in a spiraling vortex
of not knowing, and he laughed
and shackled me with primrose.
I wanted to kick him in the teeth,
that rude sonofasonofabitch and in a way, I did.
It wasn’t a literal kick in the teeth,
but it could’ve been. It could’ve also been
a punch in the mullet.
Either way, the bastard shrank away
when I finally mustered enough presence,
and he was swept away
in a blinding wind of scowls.

-r. miller

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