[poem] Tom Hansen (Word Vomit)

So people tell me to get out more. Here’s a hypothetical poem about what would happen if I tried.


In the end, I am not Summer Finn.

Instead, with the finesse
Of a drunk figure skater
I do not get his number.

My words, reviewed, sound like a brand new greeting card—
too bright and bubbly.
Garishly intimate.

At home, I contemplate the merits
Of frontal lobotomy,
Wondering if the fact we’ll never meet again is comforting
Or a loss–

And I decide I hope we never meet again.

Let me become one night’s phantom.
A redhaired negative, an anecdote,
An ego booster.
A sign that someone out there is worse off.

(God, why am I so worse off?)

In the end, I’d say he was Summer Finn.
And though he was the architect, I was Tom Hansen.

(Who wants to be someone’s first trainwreck, anyway?)





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