What seat to choose, in the dilly-dally
of moment? One might peruse
a head of hair or the tint of melanin
found in an angle of sunbeams—the Pilot,
Flying J wants ya, too. Nuptials, mother…
we’ll get round to that—all is possible
from the telescopic views of the naïve
youth playing with bricks and broken
taillights. What was a female to me, then?
Her address, redirect—what—always telling.
What adage can I toss on this isometric
template of he and she, him and her?
They, us, wandering in a cramped abode—
a micro-Mamet—less violin and more
plastic xylophone, but not sticky;
this isn’t trashy. A mix of language
always misfires, but the bus that keeps
the trundle finds articulation, its
glide on smooth texture; eventually,
our odometer goes kaput
long before the final alighting.