By: Jess Myers
We were having dinner(Jess Myers graduated from Ithaca College in May of 2006, with a degree in creative writing. Her work is largely autobiographical, though she sometimes calls it fiction, because she takes perverse pleasure in seeing what meaning people ascribe to her life. Her favorite writers are David Sedaris (whose reading inspired her to change her major from vocal performance to creative writing), Dorothy Parker, and Flannery O'Connor, to name a few. Jess is also a trained equestrian and archer. Her full portfolio can be found on WritersCafe.org.)
at some fancy place
I had the truffle linguine Alfredo
--have you ever noticed
how truffles taste
earthy, moist like
deep tongue kissing? Amazing...
it was then I realized
everyone’s feet were hidden
under the table linens,
and I wondered if they were all
foot-fucking under the tables in this fancy joint.
And there it was like some
missing piece in the jigsaw mysteries
of high society, like judging good wine
or setting too many forks at the table.
Well, alright, I want in the club too,
so I kicked off my shoes
worked your manpiece around between my
toes, and then, the strangest thing
I think the wine quivered in the glass
just before the geyser
blew our table ten feet straight up.
We should have tipped the waiter extra
for scraping our food off the ceiling
but I think he understood
you were too wiped out
to reach for your wallet.
Labels: Jess Myers, Poem