SITCOM CITY (a.k.a. A Poem I Wrote Over the Course of Months - Still Not Happy)

I know a guy
in Sitcom City.
He knows bookshops,
coffee shops,
clean bars
where single women congregate
alone, free and
hot.

I knew him from his laughter
that follows him, swallows him.
He never learns 
but that's the line,
ratings are high
in the limits.

He can't guarantee much,
he might even ruin you.
Your chances are weak
while the writing is kind.

It's this city, he'll tell you,
this rosy city
with its made-up figures
that dance among the arcs
of men like him
and some women too
though he's never met them.

I'm not sure if he cares about
the cigars he can
always afford or
the friends he
often fails.
The rain comes out through nozzles.

Everyone's open
while the city is clear.
The women smile,
await their cue
and go.
He sets them off.
We watch.
We've seen them.
We've seen this one.

The titles.
The laughter.
Run it or can it.
He's smoking jokes
and here we are
only listening,
listening hard.