Poetry

I wish to write in praise of being flippant

Thomas Campion, twenty-seven years old, is drowning himself in a cup of coffee,

the skin of cream foaming in his nose, rivulets running off his earlobes

as he tips the glass UP - this is going to take some work - and tries desperately to inhale it and end his days.

No luck. Across the café, a girl of twenty-three is twirling her hair

around her left fingertips, licking her lips as she watches the spectacle, drily bemused,

and she contemplates getting up and going over and telling him he's cute,

but he seems to be having so much fun doing what he's doing, so

she licks her lips some more as he grabs a stack of napkins and looks around sheepishly.

Nothing like heaven. What a pity there's no one here but that girl over there,

and she looks as if she's going to eat me. Thomas Campion stands up and goes

to get another cup of coffee so he can repeat the attempt, with more sugar this time.