Easy, like pushing a forefinger into an over-ripe pear,
fictions eat up my bio in a single burst.
My type-chat self description more ideal
than authentic, but who measures a cyber inch or two?
Syncopated keyboard taps
bait my instant replies. My pinky hovers
over “enter” which is also “return.”
Inevitable exchanges demand such candor,
wanting someone to come back, someone to enter.
I shift in my seat, poised at the spacebar,
typing mostly about myself and how
I’m ready for something serious, something real.
originally appeared in The Gambler (September, 2014)
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