and I read poetry over her shoulder
at a Target in a field of deer.
the Starbucks wasn't allowing
inside seating so we sweated
through the parking lot,
and talked about our exes
on the toy aisle.
I can't draw horses or crows,
but I can tumble for the best of 'em
on a sweaty South Florida Thursday,
faux hawk over flip-flops.
this is a beauty and the (old) beast situation,
her artillery is pulchritude and that
she hates dog people like me.
she texted me as I was writing
this dumb poem from "home",
agreeing that we should do nothing
together again real soon,
and now I am impatient as hell.