I am done
with men (for awhile – maybe
longer), desperate to heal
the scabbed and scarry mess
in my chest.
xxxxxxWhat the… Poof! Clouds
open, stars lie
in form. Straight? I swear
God must have a sadistic sense
of humor. Is that a cherub-
playing-harp-quasi-rock-band roaring
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxsoftly(?)
in the distance?
xxxxxxWham! Another nail
to my heart. He is
Mr. “Right.” His actual name
was . . . unimportant. As he was
all shiny and unattached.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxDropped practically
into my lap. I gasp for
air. Dial 911! If we touch,
there will be nothing
xxxxxxxxxxxxleft
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxof me.