Our Fairy Decorator

My parents went to Paris

and all I got was theory.

I believe in parthenogenesis,

in embracing the limitations

of direct address in theater.

I believe ever less

of what is spewed at me.

On the side of a new building

someone spray-painted

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO ANARCHY?

I reckon the question answers

itself, but just to make sure,

I’m going to take some red

nail polish, paint quotes

around WHATEVER and erase

the question mark.

I believe in the pillow-tossing gene,

mapped out somewhere

on an unfathomable expanse

of traits—thanks for the insights, fruit flies,

but we no longer require your services.

I believe my stomach’s talking to you now,

since I just had dinner

with one of the more notorious

figures I gather I will ever

encounter. He called me

Dear. I had, two days before,

dreamed he called me Darling.

See how I settle for less.