I set it up with surgical precision—
three weeks of shower-testing the decision
of the punchline, the timing calibrated
to the second, the setup elaborated
across the dinner table like a man
who knows exactly what he’s doing. The plan
was sound. The execution: confident.
The silence that arrived: magnificent.
The joke that didn’t land—I died
up there mid-sentence, dignified
as a man can be while standing in
the specific silence of the spin-
cycle of the punchline with no takers.
The single cough. The undertakers
of the moment finding their positions.
The joke that didn’t land: conditions.
The table pivoted with grace—
a different topic rescued the space
with the practiced ease of people who’ve
been here before, the soothing groove
of the conversational redirect.
I watched the subject take effect.
I nodded along. I ate my food.
The joke retired: no pursuit.
I’ve got a shelf of these—the jokes
that kill alone, the private strokes
of shower-comedy that vanish
in the room. I’ve tried to banish
the gap between the solo funny
and the table-funny. The money
remains divided: shower-genius,
room catastrophe. The thesis.