Her name was a piece of a book, but it wasn’t
Spine. We just had drinks that one time;
I had no car, because I’d wrecked mine, so she
had to pick me up thinking, ‘who is this guy?’
I sucked down liquor, already high, already tight
on her, and I talked too much; she hated everything.
Her name was something from a book, but it was
not Cover. I was trying so hard to conceal sudden
smitten-like feels. I imagined we could wake snakes
together, and she’d like the way my face looks after
various activities. We could be dirty or clean, or something
else, it wouldn’t matter. Oh, but I carried too much baggage.
That was it,
she said it straight to my face. Her name was a part of a novel
but it wasn’t Words or Paragraph or Ampersand.
I was all ideals, all over, and she could tell. (Ideals don’t look
good on anyone, unless you’re French, or well, you gotta have
an accent at least, strictly European.)
Her name rhymed with gauge, like how I can’t gauge a goddamn
situation, like I can’t tell when to shut-up, or when to listen, or
when to stop writing.
I can see her now, glaring straight forward, only there is a mirror
there, and I am next to her, and guess what? I’m in the mirror.
And she is in the mirror, and she won’t even turn her head to look
at me without a filter; a mirror is a filter, a mirror is a filter.