from the stash in my handbag to your tuna sushi.
Please accept my condolences on the fatal stabbing
(with a buttercream-encrusted cake cutter)
of the matron of honor at your wedding reception.
Forgive me for introducing your new husband
(the uprooted, sad-eyed Jew) to my stockbroker
as a "forlorn pork spurner." I meant no harm.
I just had nothing left in the tolerance tank.
For 8 weeks now I've been dating a grave robber
who'll never take me out at night. I'm sick
of lunches in broad daylight with this drowsy
guy who has lead-colored dirt packed under
his nails. Waiters stare at his hands like
they've seen a spook when he points out
what he wants on the menu, usually something
drowning in gravy. Most of all, pardon me
for riding roughshod over your tender confession
about poisoning your mother over the course
of a decade, a project you reported the results
of twice daily on your formerly anonymous
blog called Toxicmom.com.