I write a poem before I know the name
of the kid down the street with the blond
backpack stuffed with banana, black
as soot. Black like the amplifier, that
lords over the flat screen TV, like it
had any value at all. Like Sonos or Netflix
hadn’t just pressed the mute button
on surround sound.
His hair cut the shape of a bowl
upside down, spaghetti still dripping
off the side, like showers are for sissies
if that’s even a word, since they closed
Blockbuster, nobody knows
how to crave, a movie like Harry
met Sally down the aisle where every
movie you ever wanted to see was just
rented. I once paid $50 in late fees.
Who can remember to bring back the Bad
News Bears? I finally converted
the mini cassette from camcorders,
laid to rest with the Dell computer tower
guarding the silver spoon I didn’t suck on
anyone’s nipple. Formula was the Gucci
of 1964. I’ve been searching ever since
on Woody Allen’s couch. The one where he innocently
fucked his step daughter. It was a free
association. But nothing is free, not even
a step daughters nipple. I want to be
a professor, to teach
college students that they will shrink and
sag someday and still they will leave strangling
marriages, and they will step, not run or climb,
but step
into a chrysalis. A crystal ball. A time
machine to the boy, not quite a man,
the captain of the pick up football team
on the green in front of the dorms
who picked you.
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