A poem.

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where did she goooo?
…
mah luuuv-ly?

ah wanna nooooo…
wh-r do u whar do u goooo?


“what?”

i’m talkin’ ‘boute that one renter,
you know,
with the smokin’ hot bod
and the mini pincher dog,
who we only ever saw
when they’d test the fire alarm?


the babe, not the dog.


h-h-h-ho-ho-way
h-h-h-ho-ho-way
“who’re you
yammering about now,
hm?
i told you the girl at Jasper’s funeral was
probably twelve.
it’s the GMOs in the food:
that’s why rule of sevens, dude.”

and i’m telling you, Mr. McGonigal:
those nice visible collar bones are just
speed bumps to my unspecified near-neighbour’s
unsolicited heart,
driving slow passed those
olive-coloured Maipos
with my supercharged Viagra upstart.
“you’d have to point her out.”

but the car i thought was her’s been gone:
Miss Need-for-Speed Honouree 2020 in her
Aztec-green hatchback from ’93…
“how do you know what kind of car is chickie’s?”
because visitor’s parking faces my jail-bar juliets and
FUCK!

“whoa man, settle down…”

THAT’S BULLSHIT!
you keep winning at this FUCKING game
and it’s BULLSHIT!
“are you going to turn the console off again?”
i am not justifying my reflections to someone
who won’t let me win in my own unit!


truth be told i didn’t know anything –
standing outside shivering with
the other co-ed seniorinos,
roasting our hands on the toasty tenancy
of those new hipster ignoramos:
like the piles of COVID bodies
the government never proved were there,
hm?
they didn’t know where they’d be
if they were ever forced to leave –
the renters and those Liberal goofs,
i mean


but she,
she was a friendly

and that, pal of mine, begs remembrance
over the contents of her drawers,
nice though they are.


were.


“why are you poking me?
stop it!”

don’t you think?
“i wasn’t listening, were you talking?”

h-h-h-ho-ho-way-ohhh,
i wanna nn-AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!

//wd 6.25.2025

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Featured image “Impression of ‘Men Playing Video Games’ by MART PRODUCTION” illustrated by the author.