i loved someone who loved stupid things

a poem by Laura Brun

ice water and greasy pizza
at the mock-rustic local tavern’s
weekly trivia where we’re
beat every time by tall 30something
dudes in t-shirts and khaki
shorts, who i blame for why
you scowl and bat my hand away
when i try to hold yours, text me
from across the table not now.
it’s not that i don’t want to, we’re
just in public, you know?

bed by 11, mowing the lawn
on sunday morning, lost laptop
chargers and home depot trips.
the backseat of your parents’
minivan where i try to make
eye contact but you think it’s
too risky so i’m staring at
you staring out the window.
fancy french place that i can’t
afford but your dad buys us
dinner, says any friend of
my daughter’s is a friend
of the family! and i order
something called consommé
that looks more like chicken
broth than i’d expected,
eat it with the free bread,
feel guilty about costing
another person money.

there’s eddie murphy’s party
all the time on the radio at
8 when you ding a curb
in the parking lot of the mall
on our way to target for a
side table and you’re sobbing
because you feel unsafe as
a driver and i’m petting your
hair which you’re more upset by
because some family is outside
our car, paying attention, might

notice. i hate the things that i let
make me happy. i hate that it’s
owen wilson and wii fit, sipping
things out of a straw, house
in the suburbs, weed-picking,
it’s functionality in any form.
i hate that you’re still
here, herbal
essences shampoo,
that blue and
yellow van
gogh bistro
painting, ikea