Firehouse. Lou talks to Franco: "She didn't like the line about 'my heart beats full for you, my tears like the rain pit-pat upon...'" Franco, in a word: "No." Apparently, Lou took a turn at his own poem, and it didn't so much work out, I'm guessing. Tommy walks in with even further unhinged words about how he wants to get some flower arrangements for the house, but he is quickly headed off by Franco, who explains that Laura loved Tommy's (well, "Franco's") poem so much that she asked for a second one. So Lou took a crack and, according to Lou, Laura "hated it." Franco clarifies that she just liked the first one better than the second, and that this sophomore slump necessitates that Franco deliver with a kick-ass third poem, by the end of this week if possible.
Franco takes off, and Tommy starts to ask a perfectly innocent question (probably: "Azaleas or hydrangeas?"), but Lou cuts him off caustically: "Y'know, where the hell do you get the nerve to start writing poetry?" Lou goes on to explain that the house is run "like The Godfather," in which the Corleones control everything. Sort of still on topic, he elaborates: "Around here, we got the Probie. He controls all the homo crap, okay? Garrity controls all the stupid retard bullshit. Franco is our pussy man. You control the drinking and all the fire hero worship crap, okay? Poetry is my territory. You're muscling on my turf!" And this Character Archetype Refresher Course, right here, is why I was able to write this recap having only seeing this show twice. Tommy counsels Lou to take "a chill pill," which is really one of the great lost '80s expressions (and the very reason, incidentally, why Tommy feels so "totally tubular" lately), but Lou only shouts louder, "Where are the tits?" Lou recaps that Tommy has been talking about the tits all week long (but with the time elapse? And then the not-fire? And the falling through the floor? How much time has gone by since that first conversation?), and that when the actual poem hit the streets, it was "fourteen goddamn lines, not one tit." Tommy shoots back, "It was implied." Lou, shouting now, says that the Tommy Gavin he knows wouldn't have written that poem, even to seduce his own piece of ass. Between this and the fall and the singing and the dancing, Lou needs to know: "What are you on?" So Tommy cops to the goofballs, and reports that they seem to be working. He loves everybody. "Hey," he tells Lou, "I love you." With which he gets up, kisses Lou on the cheek, and takes off. This is the gayest firehouse in the history of New York City. But not before Tommy demands, "Next time you feel like kissing me like that, dinner and a movie first." Tommy laughs because he loves everyone.