Tonight's Poet Corner: Bromancing The Stone?

Bromancing The Stone?
by Belinda Roddie

Being bros over brunch
is so invigorating, man. The
tang of the mimosas, the cowlick
in your sick salt-and-pepper hair.
Eggs benedict and salmon while
your wife finds comfort in her own
reflection, distorted in the swan's
neck of her glass. Once we're done
brunching like kickass superheroes,

we'll jog back to your man cave,
homie, and play video games until
the veins look like spider webs across
our eyes. Blow the dust off the NES,
and we'll rehash the classics before
the old hunk of metal and plastic
overheats, and we'll take a break for

pizza rolls and bad beer. And then
your wife locks herself in the bedroom
again, and you look so crestfallen over
your can of Coors, and all I want to do
is comfort you, bro - my hand on the
curve of your back where your jersey
number turns neon against my fingers,
where you are so temptingly warm.