white square with a blue f in plain font
a globe that chains down the ghosts
of people that I can net in with several
thrown out, reeled in friend requests,
then drown them all with sentimental
quotes in papyrus, constantia, brush script
set on pictures of wheat and barren tree bark.
with you I can have my Valentine’s date
with the kaleidoscope of bitter single e-cards
and couple collages with roses in the center.
the ironies of showing your desperate posts
for “I just want the world to stop spinning”
or “pray for my family in our suffering”
alongside the news cries that a terrorist
has set fire to another building or three
people have been shot in the streets beside
engagement pictures, toddlers smashing
spaghetti in high chairs, country song lyrics,
questions about gmail and snapchat names.
do you capture me because you are as flawless
as an ironed white Merona shirt, or because
you are flawed, broken as the green and
blue pottery cup that fell in my closet and now
reveals unglazed, white, naked clay in two
spots where the handle used to be?
But don’t let my chat box ring with
someone trying to call me out, drive me
back to the prodigal son’s story or
invite me to coffee tomorrow at 10.
This wall is my shred of confidence
that holds a Kleenex between me and
the bleeding world. Tear it away and
I will have to feel the real things-
the taste of cold cappuccino in an empty cafe
the scent of wet rain on the pavement
the touch of a stranger’s hand
asking if I am next in line.



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