He floats toward me
like debris from a Shreveport wreck,
and in a last ditch effort to ban his jetsam
from washing up on my shore and decomposing
on freshly clean sheets,
I create a profile before god and country,
list six things I could never do without,
six things I don’t know what to do with,
tap my keyboard three times and post selfies,
bait to catch the wandering eye
and the charms of a local Lothario,
a blitz flirtation that leaves me watching
Netflix on most weekends, stuffing my face
with cheese and crackers, did I mention
I'm able to transform
energy into living matter?
I squeeze the extra cheese/cracker mixture
sitting on my coffee table
into a little man,
my idea of a live-in boyfriend
with a strange tattoo on his forehead.
He says it’s the Aleph.
Already, he’s talking back at me



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