One Man's Story

He wanted to pluck
something out of the air
like a child's magician:
a story. Words upon words,
consonants and vowels
fucking each other
into coherence, like a man's mind
ten seconds after that last push
when everything is serene
and beautiful, except
for the woman beside him.
So he slides against the wall
and stares at the chipped paint
until those defects become faces
with see-through bodies, and those bodies
have see-through bowels, and inside the bowels
live men unashamed of truth who tinker
all day on their robotic brides. Then
she taps his shoulder and again
he's feeling the sweated sheets
wetting his skin. Then paint is all he sees.
I guess that's his story.