Christ, am I sweating under
solitude’s blanket again? A full year now
I’ve read myself to sleep, worked through
the mornings, and served up fine meals for
“just friends.” So why these nights
do I sigh before locking the deadbolt?
Love, I’ve left all that to the new crop;
let them brush their hair before bed
and leave on their make-up. I have a student
named Lacy, anxious and beautiful,
who’s untucked sheets all over town
playing hide-and-seek with you. She’d still
blush at gas station roses
and find a rhyme for cupid other than
stupid. Me, I’ll trade (partnered)
sex and “what are you thinking?”
for a 5 liter box of Chianti.
Give up on me, Love; I chant Father
Freud’s dicta and Moore’s “isolation’s
the cure for the blues.” So why
in my dreams do I thrash in chill water?