“What’s more American than tax evasion?”
I half-joke, drinking AriZona out of a chipped teacup.
Upstairs, Uncle Sam’s third cousins mow through my man’s papers.
They think he’s more Clyde than Carlton, but I know he’s simpler—
or I wouldn’t be unsticking spaghetti from starter pots night after night.
My dress would be longer and less scratchy.
He would have more friends and reflavored fears.
For one, I wouldn’t be confined downstairs
like low-rent Rapunzel while the suits talk coin.
He’d be smarter from the jump.
He’d consider a girl in a Britney Spears bra
and tennis skirt too flashy, like Pop Rock(ette)s:
fun but not (ful)filling.
For the two of us, things would go smoother.
The stucco wouldn’t be the rock-splattered, grotto blue
of your soul, this suffocating shade.
My pace wouldn’t be splintered by buckling floorboards,
scored by prom songs and praise for destruction self-made.
I thought audits were only for entrepreneurs and idiots.
He only pitches tent in one of those boxes.
So what’s he selling, a story to who?
He’s no Goodfella with a know-nothing wife.
I only got rings under my eyes,
no hired help to bankroll my sighs.
Distractions come in
silicone and ray(the)on
commercials that clutter the TV screen.
Keeping Up with the Kardashians drones in the background
since the last tenant buried the remote along Ocean Drive.
A dozen doppelgängers strut beyond the gold window film.
Maybe they know what it’s like to moll for the long haul,
count red-bottom blessings instead of stressing one slip.
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