Airhead Poem by Nancy Ames

Afterwards, they were lying in bed,
slightly sweaty and watching T.V.
She turned to him and said something
witty about cartoon clouds. It made him
uneasy.

She had seemed like such an airhead
when he met her, with nothing on her
mind but her long, beautiful, shining
hair, like the smiling plastic playthings
of his childhood.

And now he felt like he had to respond
somehow, so he looked away and said
something pretentious about artistic
values on the internet.

She began to hum a complicated
melody and got up off the bed and
danced over to the window. The fog
outside was so thick that only a sort
of diffuse moonlight was visible, but
she closed the curtains anyway.