Philly, Cheese, Steak

If rolling your eyes were a gesture of affection
maybe we never would have left the bedroom.

Phil from ZipRecruiter fucking gets me.
He knows I’ve been dying to wait tables.

Maybe if you were more like Phil
every day would be Sunday.

Maybe if you were more like Phil
I would know what to do with the plant you left.

Maybe if you were more like Phil
I would have a comfortable chair
and a plan
and a new haircut
and the biggest balls you’ve ever seen.

Phil totally gets me.

You Wear Hopelessness Well

The center of the Venn Diagram
of my unused “fuck” and “party” playlists
is an image of me
standing naked,
alone in the bathroom
looking at my balls.

Storming Off in Flip-Flops

Chiseled marble
made to look like fabric.
You running your hand over it
the same way you would
a stray dog.

How far apart were we standing?
You a fan of the glance across the room.
Me a fan of nothing.

“This art is bad,”
we said in unison.
Then I grinned with too much teeth
and ruined the moment
enough to write about it.

Me Neither

Have you ever literally walked around
naked, in circles
in your apartment
muttering to yourself
so long
that it
a metaphor.

Loud Creak on the Hardwood Floor

A dream about shitting on the floor
was somehow
more sad than funny.
I have observed myself recalling a “pending payment.”
Observed myself, I tell ya.
Find me a reliable narrator.
Just in general.
Find me a guy who always tells it like it is.
(I thought about asking while looking at a mirror on the ground.)
The mirror on the ground might be
the most reliable person I know.
Sky in the puddle.
A real go-getter.
You try to use the clouds
to predict the weather
and you really suck at it.