nine minutes

high noon. monday afternoon. six hours
before i have to do anything. seven
o’clock school this evening.

busted out the frozen trader joe’s
mojito salmon. mouth waters from
just looking at the packaging.

read the back because i can never
remember the cooking instructions.
microwave. push a couple buttons.

conventional oven sounds too complicated
and feminine. now i know why my
dad always said ovens are for women.

it comes out less tender. but so do
i. who’s judging. this is bachelor
time. i must embrace this encounter.

so. nine minutes… START. the light
comes on and i hit the garage button.
weave through the baseball stuff.

to jump on my cruiser. pedal. petal.
neck-breaking stare and that girl
in the corolla. (she started it.)

neck-back forward to nearly run
into some rockabilly dude. chops
all long and neatly groomed.

turn right on lawrence to the deli/
market. grabbed a six-pack of
smithwick’s. 1710. my favorite.

so swifty. pulled into the garage
like knight rider. black plastic bag
in hand. shut the genie screw drive®.

nineteen seconds left! just enough
time to scrape off the plate’s toast
crumbs from this morning’s mess.

crack the bottle. slide the salmon.
to me. this is a little piece.
of monday afternoon heaven.

topped off with a candy bar. and
some reading of james dickey.
i’m not sure life could

get any better.