Never have I ever
given an opening monologue
before an improv show,
but here I am in this monastery
of comedy gods and legends.
Bill Murray, Gilda, Belushi,
and Chris Farley, my favorite,
all kissed or raped this stage,
and now I am supposed to read
shitty poetry and pretend to be.
I am about to make up a tale
about how love is gross
and that one time I had sex
on a tennis court
with a black girl called Courtney.
Like blimps in the night,
I take my tennis shoes off
on stage and give them to the crowd,
because this only comes along
once in a lifetime.
It goes well like economy,
and I leave with a sore throat,
a shirt, some stickers, a story,
and then some aging agent
asks about changing my life.