Another Arm-ache from Too Much Cyber-fisting
I’m a late bloomer.
These waves come in waves –
all at me like a portrait –
waving me down the street,
up a staircase. Lie down flat,
Late Bloomer Up a Staircase.
Or the concrete’s too freakin’
cold but we do it anyway,
buds in winter. Next week
it’ll be my one and only
bathroom stall. And hot,
like it was just this evening,
skin from 25 years ago.
I would say I remember,
and I do, but how deep do I
have to go? Just to conjure
Blondie (all mine and
ohso mortally male).
How fast did we type?
What mode of communication?
Something along the lines of a
sink leak. Codes banged on
walls. “M-Y. R-O-O-M-I-E-S.
G-O-N-E.” Over and out,
I’m over! Plunging into
that pool so dark it
could be blood.
Warm Central.
Until security
wakes us up,
wipes us clean
like a bad disc,
something viral.
Let’s last a whole
year without a clue.
And we do.
