We spotted some guy up ahead slithering
like a lost snake all over the road.
“Woof. Must be drunk,” I said.
She looks at me without a beat,
my undisputed queen of devil’s advocacy, and says,
“Maybe he’s getting road head.”
“Yeah,” I say, “maybe he’s doing his taxes.
Could be sorting his recycling,
our noble steward of the earth.”
It goes on like this without question.
“So-and-so won’t message me back,” I say.
“Well, maybe they dropped their phone in the lake,” she responds.
“So-and-so broke off plans with me again,” I say.
“Well, maybe they’re just busy with family.”
No explanation, no analysis,
just conversation over.
She makes it look easy. Let me
take a crack at it, I think.
“Shit, they’re going to be late again,” she says.
“Maybe they just popped a tire,” I say.
“Maybe,” she says. “But probably not.”
Maybe, but probably not.
Why the hell
didn’t I think of that?
The devil’s advocate strikes again.
Queen of Devil’s Advocacy
Ian Valor