by Luke Otley
You’re on the edge of my bed,
I can’t describe it,
you’re balled up and tomato pink,
my butterball, crying.
Am I autistic or just obtuse?
Probably a foul cocktail of both,
probably from all the red wine I drunk,
probably from the way I smile so smug,
you hung on my arm like I deserve you.
I’ll take advantage of your sweet neurosis,
I’ll let you bet against my house,
benefit of years and confidence
in all the beers I drunk.
God I’m proud, and oh so cynical,
typical of single males in their mid-twenties
secretly all so desperate, aching
for warmth like yours,
under the covers, something platonic,
just something to take us
out this tasteless plastic world
and place us some place