checking the mail
after sleeping in my wallet
with new tattoo,
not because of you,
this time,
this time.
I look around the corner
with my hundred dollar face,
for I am not allowed to live and be lost.
your name is a triangle
and I got a bad desire,
a decoy of light in my life.
a nice little Sunday,
a pedicure,
and a book about screenwriting,
a sand poem about life's little trigs.
didn't really think about you
until now, writing this, like religion,
and I wonder what I would say
if you called, probably nothing,
or something stupid,
like Fuck the Red Sox.