The Occupation of Jim Jarmusch

The Occupation of Jim Jarmusch

by Tricia Louvar

You count the mason jars as she’s fucking him.

They are friends. You don’t have friends. Ever.

You drive her to her places—distances measured by

Ashtray and Robert Plant, one last time, right. No.

Sofas in this house (these houses) no one ever lifts a cushion.

You checked. Times like this you think of all the names for white

And wonder how far you could see under water.

People in pictures held by magnets, covering arms but never eyes,

Always look satisfied. The night’s version of a kitchen window

You see the separations—cyan, magenta, yellow, black.

If only you could see yourself from the angles you don’t see yourself.

But from what you know you lean against a counter to

So, so quietly drink a stranger’s beer.

How does anyone ever find your hidden talent?

***

Originally published in ZYZZYVZA, Winter 2004