(Or: Timothy Tries to Give Me His Number While the Lady He Came with Grows Impatient)

“Seriously, Timothy, you are breaking my heart,”
says the dolled up girl in the parking lot.
You like blondes, and she’s a good start –
voluptuous and sad, thankfully not

unaccustomed to life’s disappointments.
It’s clear to everyone that you’re a good dancer,
or, in other words, a boy who’ll make rent –
borrowing, when you need it, someone else’s answer.

Meanwhile, Timothy, I’m falling through the sky,
lonelier than ever.  Nice to meet you.  The gun’s under
my pillow, burning colder by the hour.  Why dance, why
begin anything, when what we take for first kiss wonder

is the first quake of the ending beneath our feet.  The girl
is in the car, waiting.  Get in, drive faster.