The assembly-line of lovers/dates
had been laid off
w/ a terrific e-mail-
one that fence-hopped my skull
& licked my brain-stem-
Sorry, guys, the gig’s up.
I found a good man.
Though, this comment was
Steve McQueen car-skidded by
a revisionist one- Ben Franklin
chickening-out of the Constitution’s
rough draft,
I’m just going to drink today, gents,-
5 days later:
You realize, I do see other men.
This fishing-line snagged on a
rusty, barnacle-goateed Olds at
the bottom of a pond;
this Universal Monster not
invited
to the graduation party-
This kinda Mormon scuba-diving/
new tv dating sitcom desires
inside various bars & cubbyholes
for additional men w/
additional attributes,
was enough for me to tell you,
weeks ahead of my predicted
UN inspector schedule-
in this pilot-episode of some
highly-emotional After-School-Special
(young gal w/ an affinity for booze & cigs,
old trout patrolling the school
parking-lot), where
the director stops me, saying:
That’s not the script.
You can’t improvise.-
on your steel-rodded balcony,
a mist molesting the cars
3 floors below, cats in near-distant
hollering for quickies,
that all the rotten-dates,
mad-women, chunks of
great loneliness, tours of depression,
I’ve had, were all
worth it.
A thousand times.
Cause all these tributaries
led me to you.