I said ‘goodnight’ after you took my mind for a ride,
but you always run when I’m what you find.
Shaking next to me, just a boy and girl on a floor,
Finally kissing, and not for the first time.
I can never know “what if,”
only guess while I drive home.
Here’s hoping I’m still in your head,
making your dreams tonight.
Key stricken papers sprawl,
technologically unsound clicks
ratchet by in rhythmic bliss.
Type: setting, tone, soupy words
congealed in a spoon. Eyes the color
and size of black olives cast anxious
stares over shelves and shelves
of what we were taught to want.
We don’t just talk to ourselves, anymore!
We have entire conversations with bloody
alphabet shaped pieces, dripping sticky down
white sleeves. Return to the typewriter,
to leave an archaic ink stain.
Cast blame on marketing schemes
and little CHEF BOY ARE DEE’S dreams.
