<p>I’m planning a powerplay on the level of a live TV strip tease, like Drew Barrymore getting down on David Letterman’s desk.</p>
I spend my formative years so engrossed in Friends
that the show becomes a period piece about me
on a couch—
a plaid period piece, where I learn what an orgasm is
and the lyrics to ‘Baby Got Back’
I spend them loaded up on bad haircuts and neat
platonic sentiment
till one day, six white heads in a fountain overlay
you serving me food on a cushion
I don’t know yet
that old things get better
in the time you spend considering them, just that
there’s a theme song to the tune of us
domestically expanding. I wonder lately
if you cyberstalk me sometimes
in an ode to our hormones—
some clashing and un-clashing of chemical remembrance—
because to me, you’re a warm gas-ball of
familiarity: a heat I can stand in
but with midday, burn-your-eyes sunlight. I’m planning
a powerplay on the level of a live TV strip tease
like Drew Barrymore getting down on
David Letterman’s desk. A picture on the web to say
I am this now—
thighs out for the void and hoping
that you’re in it
Because I know old things get better
in the time you spend considering them, and that
I should harden,
and I will—
on David Letterman’s desk
So I compartmentalise you into a corner, next to
denim feel and coffee shops
I compartmentalise you into my ignorance
of correct cognitive functioning, like a sock
I fold into another sock then leave
in a drawer. I ask big questions like:
If I trip on the sidewalk and no one’s there to see it
does God insert a laugh track?
If I meet you in a doorframe
does my musical heartburn swell?
When you next see me, I will be Drew Barrymore
showing her tits
to David Letterman on Late Night TV—that is,
using a very public medium to remind you I have tits