Sunday afternoons are profane in their laziness.
Often, I sleep until noon, contemplating how
to best spend the day.
I trace the perimeter
of another body in my bed,
willing him to appear.
When my alchemy
I move on to more trivial things:
how high can I stack the dishes in the sink,
can I go another day without showering,
to what mass can the pile of
clothes in the walk-in closet
accumulate before I take action?
The answers are usually higher,
one more day and forever.
I take back the former
tracing in my bed of a
If one actually appeared,
I might have to wash the dishes,
or even make more room in the closet.
Bachelorhood suits me.
Listen: if Emily Dickinson
and Jack Black somehow
bent the laws of space,
time and decorum and had
a child, odds are,
the kid would turn out something like me.
There are few worthy/up to the challenge
of being matched with a
recluse, poetic, dramatic exhibitionist.
But I’m sure there’s someone out there
who will soon acquire the taste.