Lunch Hour By Robin Wyatt Dunn

I find the right parts to eat: her urge to buy the extra lipstick, his fantasy about a black dwarf, the child’s anxiety about ice cream cones, and the dog’s dream of clouds. I gobble them up so that they never were.

All the things that could have been and are not fatten my gut.

I live in a tower, over 2nd Avenue. I watch you cross the street. I look into your eyes, with my sunglasses on, and my mind, like a tongue, flicks into your brain.

© 2015 Robin Wyatt Dunn

Robin Wyatt Dunn was born in Wyoming during the Carter Administration. He lives in Los Angeles. He is a member of the intelligentsia. He holds three degrees, drinks coffee (lattes included), and thinks that being intelligent is a good thing and talking about ideas worthwhile. He is the kind of pinko egghead Joseph McCarthy wanted to flay alive and burn at the stake on the White House lawn. He knows that the McCarthys and the Pol Pots and the George W. Bushes of the world are always and forever eager and ready to slit his throat and dump him in a mass grave. This is why he has a wicked sense of humor.

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