dripping off the faucet -
As for me, I look away
bent shaking broken naked.
She's brushing rushing sidelong
through the throng bug eyed nightly -
As for me, I find my gaze
drawn downward weakly, softly sadly.
She lives serenely in the moment;
there is no time for her but now -
As for me, I see 'now' rarely;
revisionist schisms consuming all my doldrums.
She dines at fashionable notable eateries -
I lick clean the floorboards of dive bars and state stores -
She's snow light dancing madly aching,
drunk with wit at Prince and Thompson -
As for me, I sit in silence
afraid of going comically melding mad into television.
Or, in the end, is it television off its rails
melding headlong into me?
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