The bathroom scale smirks your optical delusion
with a fright wig
waiting for long-overdue texts
from the not-so-dearly departed in-country
where someone will be charged
for impersonating you on YouTube . . .
You segue to those times
when car exteriors matched interiors
and you practiced eroticies
in a green van with green seats and green mats
dialing in Rockaday Johnnies
with a cigarette lighter that burned a hole
in your costume du jour minus one . . .
Your epicenter was dragged off-pointe
by a ballet dancer in First Position
sitting in an end-groove
through a Victoria's Secret Crayola Release
with too much to expect too soon
from streetballers wowing courtside
while Dylan roamed backstories:
I lived by the window / As he talked to himself . . .
