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Smushin' some old stuff together.

There's very little romance in the wait for a text message

It probably would be better to stare out the window 

red eyed and forlorn

It'd probably be better for there to be a pony racing towards me

its rider with weathered baseball glove skin

soaked from rain and sleet and hail and the whiskey 

that keeps them warm at night

If I were waiting on a pigeon to fly in from Peru

it'd be easier to go on about my day

easier to do the dishes, ride the bus, wait for my coffee 

If I were sending letters I'd probably ask less questions

My correspondence would dress up a little

before it descended the staircase out of my brain 

it would practice dance moves

the kind you reserve for ball room floors

My correspondence would get its haircut

and you could show it off to your friends

Instead my correspondence is a sweaty marathon runner

My correspondence is thirsty as fuck

My correspondence is a sink full of dirty dishes

and a windowsill of dead house plants

This wait is as stupid as swimming with a backpack on 

and the backpack is full of useless shit anyway 

Let's hit the bars, then

Let's get day drunk 

Let's go diving in the ocean for all the messages in bottles that cracked and never made it to shore

last weekend  the heart was cocked back and loaded
and this weekend all four chambers are exhausted

last weekend was a bag of potato chips and now it's a pile of crumbs in my sheets

the weekend before was a stomach pump every hour on the hour

this weekend is a tidal pool full of fish with disco ball scales

and a mermaid who decided to start dressing in all black last month, all the way up to her lipstick

this weekend, i will be the island boy searching for pearls

who keeps mistaking the reflection of stars for white treasures beneath the surface