Keeping busy is not as good for my health
as it used to be, darling girl. Not since I was nineteen
and ignorant of knowing
when it was best to get lost
and when it was time to look for the comfort
of running into someone after two or three years apart.

I’m handsome now. I actually believe that sometimes.
The sun after so many hours of being locked
out of the house has done wonders for the skin on my arms.
The bite marks add character,
and I can catch a bottle of vodka when someone throws it
my way from the second floor of an outdoor motel hallway.

Some of this stuff has become precious over time,
but a lot of it is just strictly there for my amusement.

Call it terminal arrested development
with strangers coming from all corners of the square globe
to pipe in suggestions for the soundtrack.

Call it by the clever name you came up with
to describe the mood I was in when I wanted to steal a helicopter
and either scare or impress all the wrong people.

People tell how I haven’t changed a bit.
I hate not knowing what they mean.
I really hate when it comes from a complete stranger.

Clean-living is for suckers. I’ve said that for years,
so maybe that’s what they’re thinking of.

You’ve never said a word about it. Bless your heart,
Our Lady of Detective Story Curves. Even your violent habits
and bad habits are charming most cold mornings.

Those dead flowers are starting to look odd
stacked on top of all those newspapers in the kitchen,
and your cat isn’t waiting until I pass away to try and eat my eyes,
but I can’t imagine a better place to live two nights a week.

You’ll have to trust me the other nine nights.

No one ever has,
and I’ve always been curious
to see if I deserve that kind of treatment.

If I don’t,
I’ll still take you out to your favorite state line
for being sweet enough to try.

07/23/2011

Posted on 07/24/2011
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