My opinions about the world are solid,
but none of them reflect comprehensive reality.
I
never have had a conversation
while watching a white-hat, beignet-slinger
about the mastery of frying oil
and what this spot looked like in 1620.
I
prefer a click on the vibrant light of false
hope. Watching when love doesn’t manifest.

This is what we do
when we want love,
attention,
laughter.

But did you go to the comedy club?
Free laughs on Monday, open mic night,
except for the drinks, though,
you have to buy.
At the very least,
chuckle over the half developed
attempt of a 19 year old
to grasp the subtlety
of “fuck”
and to tell a story
without sweating so profusely
that he begins to smell of piss.

Your gray hair is very stylish.
All of the posts tell me,
but
I
am not so sure
I
like the reminder that
I
am sitting watching a BBC sitcom
and remembering the last time
my fingers were not keyed up.

No one knows how you smell anyway,
just that you like CCR and PBR
and that the 524 tiny images
under the word friends
saw you three years ago
and would now confuse your face with that
of the man who checks groceries every sunday night.

But this is life
in a big hollow chest.