preaching to the choir [crackpot]

“he has a lot of crackpot ideas,”
Serena says, nose upturned just so, a tilt
so subtle it could be mistaken for
natural haughtiness and not the snub
that gilds her tone.

(she had tried, for all of four seconds,
to find an alternative way to issue
what she perceives to be a warning;
but she’s aggressively progressive; she
spent all last week knitting pussy hats
for the March for Women, and
it’s not in her nature to sand edges down
to curves, or to bite her lip
on the word “fuck”.)

so vehement, you think, are her opinions,
that they often sound like insults.

and she doesn’t look at you apologetically
the way someone else might; she merely
takes a forkful of white pizza and glances
at you expectantly, as if to hear your
indignant rebuttal.

(she’d like that, you think; she’s always
spoiling for a chance to fight.)

instead you demure. you shrug, just
the one shoulder and sagely
sip from an inexpertly poured
IPA, the hops squeezing tartly at
your tongue as you test the strength
of a reply between your back molars, knowing
you will have to disappoint her.

(you smile. it’s sheepish and almost

“I’m trying to stick to a brand
of crazy that I recognize.”

People are weird. 


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