The Occupation of Jim Jarmusch
by Tricia Louvar
You count the mason jars as she’s fucking him.
They are friends. You don’t have friends. Ever.
You drive her to her places—distances measured by
Ashtray and Robert Plant, one last time, right. No.
Sofas in this house (these houses) no one ever lifts a cushion.
You checked. Times like this you think of all the names for white
And wonder how far you could see under water.
People in pictures held by magnets, covering arms but never eyes,
Always looked satisfied. The night’s version of a kitchen window
You see the separations—cyan, magenta, yellow, black.
If only you could see yourself from the angles you don’t see yourself.
But from what you know you can lean against a counter to
So, so quietly drink a stranger’s beer.
How does anyone ever find you or your hidden talent?
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Tricia Louvar lives in Calabasas. She notes: “I started writing poetry after repeatedly bombing (they called it “baptisms”) at stand-up comedy class in Santa Monica.” E-mail: tricia_louvar@hotmail.com
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