Typeface
I've guessed that you move quicker in typeface,
your little fingers scrambling, your businessmen
in suits, free to choose from their mother's
pre-mixtures, free to lick their lover's toes
until the sun stops coming up. I've guessed
that you are garlicky and cross, false-footed
on your way to the drug store.
If the email said she loved you,
could she still have loved you in 1979?
Because on cold nights with you
I've guessed she speaks to you in song,
tired whispers that escape her like
change from a machine. Even I know
she couldn't have been alive in 1979,
but you keep clicking on her picture like
she might just jump out and kiss you,
you stilted, shifty fool. And I've
guessed you suspect her of moving
your furniture two inches to the left
from Arkansas when your doors are locked.
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