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.
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?)