by Brian Kerstetter
MY FAVORITE BUTTER KNIFE
Yesterday was the hottest summer day in brooklyn
I put on a pair of white shorts
And took my racquets to the courts
For a set of tennis.
My outfit is modeled after bjorn borg’s
At the wimbledon final of 1977
I’ve never seen anything closer to perfection.
Wearing a white headband, knee socks
and old tennis shoes
I look just like borg, maybe better.
Then I lay in the grass
with a cold glass of lemonade
And let Godfrie the local bulldog lick the sweat
Off my wrist.
His sandpaper tongue took me back to …
…a girl I once knew in paris.
You won’t believe this
But I swear it happened.
On November 9, 1997
in the cafe where she worked
she was drinking and singing and
waiting tables in red high heel shoes.
After serving a plate of steak-frites to the next table
she climbed on the table
where I was sitting with her friend
and poured the lower half of a bottle
of that year’s beaujolais nouveau over my head,
she chased me out of the café and around the Pantheon with a butter knife.
Her eyes were on fire and
To this day she swears she would have killed me
If you’d caught up with me.
But I still think she was faking.
All I remember from that night was
the way the knife looked in the spotlights illuminating the Pantheon
and laughing so hard I had an asthma attack.
I told this story to O. in the back of a taxi last year,
“Shut up,” he said. “girls aren’t like that.”
and continued cleaning his camera lens with his t-shirt.