We spill our guts, but casually, (and not really)
the way women just know how to do
easy as breathing, at once meaningless and vital
threading the freeway in the afternoon sun,
gorge on words with an old, rusty lexicon
so familiar it's frightening.
---
This song reminds me of you,
about whom I strung under 10 words
together today, moving on
to new schemes, over lunch. And it didn't sting.
So easy it was frightening: you are now story:
short story.
We played it over and again
on Santa Monica Blvd, no less. It did not fit us,
but we liked it,
I liked it,
the way it sounded sad.
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