extension filed to the IRS,
two weeks since break-up
(number 2?), ominpresent
intimations of reconciliation.
Nowhere near as blah
as yesterday, and
there’s this fit
of confidence to boot,
swelling near to a burst.
Edward,
who lives nearby,
will never talk to me again,
yet asks me
as he’s walking
out the door: So,
if we were to have sex,
who’d dominate?
Yawn.
20 now equals
15 years younger
than me.
I see the delta.
