Something Anthony Bourdain says
catches ear as poetic.
I rewind, even though
show plays live, capacity
granted by one more bit of modern
technology that inhabits house.

I’m eager to catch line entirely
and transcribe it, correct,
into computer screen.
Replay produces
no poetic joy gasp, only pedestrian language
documentayque, reality shows.

My muse
is one fickle
femme.