TFLN Poem - Profile, Parole

Hey.

Here's this week's www.textsfromlastnight.com poem.

(206):

Oh and .... you'll love this: my life coach says you writing my online dating profile isn't a horrible idea.

So, it’s come to this.

You’ve just been sprung from jail,

And you’re in your grateful phase.

Everything’s so damn wonderful.

Hot showers whenever you want them.  Grocery stores.

Put your feet in a direction, and you can set them forward.

Nothing stopping.   And you found me.   Made a cupcake lunch date.

Now, giggling over my computer,  moving tiny words around .

Persuasive as a bolt of lightning.

You light a cigarette,

(but I told you not to smoke)

And whisper, almost dreamily:

Remember when we made out?

Like we were at a drive-in once, holding hands, 

Sipping phosphates and necking or some shit.

But it wasn’t making out,  Cass. We  - we – had our mouths on each other.

There.   You know.  That’s beyond making out.   That’s the realm of glands

And involuntary fluids, and I just keep this to myself.   Grin tighter, spray some

Cinnamon air freshener, pop a wintogreen lifesaver , bite it hard.

Jagged, chalky shards as I listen:

There’s too much – too much talking in this dating thing, Alex.  Just use

Better pics.  Be less sad.  Talk about animals and travel and fun stuff.

You’re fun. Be fun.  And brief.

You charm me by snuffing out the coal of the lit cigarette,

Closing your mouth and wrapping it around your practiced tongue.

Not a burn.  Effortless.  You fish it out, toss it in the trash, grab some

Of my mints.

I’m not fun, I tell you.   I’m not a nice person, Cass.   I

Have my uses.  Make things.   I don’t want to travel because

I haven’t even learned half of this island.  And everybody hates

A tourist.  Ignorant of history, nestled in the safe, cloistered sectors…

You’re doing it again.   You grin, like a cat cornering a sparrow with a broken wing.

Shut up.  Go get laid.  How long’s it been?

Ten months, nine days, I suppose.

Suppose nothing.  You know.   It’s all you think about.  Like a sucking chest wound.

Why?

There’s been work to do, Cass, I demur.  I motion to the computer.  You shrug,

Toss a sad smile, and go back to fixing me.    Keys click, the mints loll

in our aching mouths.