Rules Of Encounter

Her rules of encounter were simple...
No compassion, no tenderness, and
no ridiculously shared and wasted feelings.

no letting me know if it was good; tasting
the tray of fries at the game, the chili
on the silly run down dog that was just like
any other dog. With her empty mouth
testing the air for more of everything,
except atmosphere, not electrical signs.

Not even great, the announcer willing
to talk to her through the P.A. system.
Blind, he cannot see to pay the dues
...she listens without being appreciated,
or compensated. It's like a lecture,
or a symposium.

It was her job to be unimpressed by every
action, any smile, or whatever motivation
there was(for me) to get a distance from
earlier failures ancestors and recent
boyfriends were guilty of.

Believe? Believe what? Tonight, tomorrow,
she'll be somewhere else. Now is some time
to kill, and that's okay. But again, she is
not impressed. Not ever. Kill anyone who
thinks so. Herself if she really is,
by anything.