On Waving at the Chevron

Darling, it's time to return to the way

things were before you drank cabernet

between my sheets or took, without asking,

my oldest red hoodie. I'd like that garment

back now and my ratchet set too. Leave them

in my mailbox at work, the one

I share with the handsome mechanic,

you know, the Chicano with the very long

mustache. When I called you Lima Bean

and Muffin Breath and Sistine Spackle,

I meant it, I did. I mean, Pie Face, that was

honest feedback, which, I might note,

you've never taken well. They say

the ability to hear criticism is a sign

of maturity, and you've never been deaf.

Remember the night we stayed up late,

playing answering machine? You made the beeps

and I left the messages? You are the algae

in my fish tank, the salt damage on my truck?

We laughed ourselves drunk, but the sentiment

was true. I'd like to assure you, rumors don't lie.

My screenplay's been taken and this Saturday

I'll be attaching the wings to my jet. The corn

is yea high and that rash on my thigh has shrunk

to the size and shape of a scream. Every Tuesday

and Thursday, I make pasta from dust

and the carbs keep me strong when I train

for the longbow competition I'll compete in

next March. You wouldn't believe it, but my aim

is spot on. It's nice, isn't it, to catch up like this,

like old friends, which, I guess, is what we aren't.

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