Dreary Miss Clery, wildly weary, why do you wear flowers in your hair? I love you from afar. I watch your eyes scan the room for prospects, irrespective of Miss Mulcahy or Miss Cudahy beating you to the punch. Poor decisions present invitations from all directions. We dance to girl groups and Duane Eddy. Communion, a garlic breadstick. Confession, a Bloody Mary. Overserve me a teacup of port. Three fingers down my throat. In a cold sweat, I wake up hot for backbeat bass lines. A letter I meant to write gets pulled from the Fall schedule. Rumors lick at me like an ice cream cone. If I were different, none of this would matter (Sartre says it better). If it's antimatter you want to hate, then label me a disappointment. Goal posts hide their scores. I don't want to be the guy. I want to be that guy, the one the guy counts on.