in Boynton Beach, Florida.
we will rip pages out of poetry books
and put them under the windshield wipers
of our crushes' cars.
like Tristram Shandy,
I was born too late,
but I cough and call it fate,
and then go on living,
which is just dying.
one day she will call me,
and remember my middle name.
we will write poems together,
and put them under the windshield wipers
of those dumb Cyber Trucks.