1679

I’m standing in the sunlight

wearing black and my grandmother’s white crocs.

I’m trying to remember a dream where I

made love by a brackish swamp

my lover telling me to use my tongue like

James Bond chewing a handful of olives.

I couldn’t get the hang of it.

If a NYTimes community reporter can get sober

there’s hope for the rest of us.

He’s either very good at fucking

or he doesn’t know what it is

mumbling his name the whole time

I tried to explain it to her.

I’ve been celibate for some time.

My neighbor holds me while I check the mail

crying into her Texas sweatshirt.