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He swerves from the Girl Who Calls Him Dodo Bird,
some poor, silver-white metal -- gallium
maybe (la di da!). She’s semi-conducting, but blurred
on Hemingway Daiquiri and some halved Valium.
His soul
is a drizzly November -- call him Ishmael, or Iscariot.
He had a tough go of sooner on her back on some grassy knoll,
or tugging at tattooed breasts in the Center City Marriott.
She swears he must be doing some sort of projection
(astral or Sigmund’s).
All those horrible things: scoffing about
her essay to the Ayn Rand Institute, unsolicited affection,
coughing up Berryman
and Geisha Girls in search of the cracked-out belles
who could take a compliment, like how she smells of paint-chipped
Cape houses in Kennebunkport, jagged bluffs, and antiquated wells.
He’ll get the Russian bride spam e-mail he deserves.
If you ask me the whole thing’s broke. Easy for me to say
when I see them throwing darts & fellow feeling --
their woozy coin-tosses -- into fountains promising youth &
a sort of grace.
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