lost in a paranoid man's thoughtsabout peckerwoods
and the creamy white thighs of unattainable
women
i get a call.
bright and blithe with the bubble of beer
i feel bad that i can't match your optimism.
my fingers scratch against the icy concrete
of the cot closet i've tucked myself into
while you detail the outfit you donned
to impress a girl who didn't want you.
you ask how my day was with sincerity
(i imagine you sitting forward on your bed, engaged)
images come to mind:
of the setting sun on the ride to lake george,
of the india presentation,
about how i imagined your hand in mine
during group process.
but all i say is, "you call too late."
you apologize
and head to bed.
as much as you do.
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