looking for you
in all
the wrong places—always
mistaking hastas for
hydrangeas—taking
hasty pictures with my
phone of daffy
pairs of mallards—singing Stormy
Weather to
myself in foreign
accents—always misspelling hello
on purpose and never
ever
eating
lunch on time.
But I seriously don't know
what that has
to do with anything—just like I don't
know what I'd
do if I found you, other than
tell you all this
at the end of the day
—just
to make you smile
—just to make
you laugh—just
before your pretty
head slams
down hard on a red
pillow and I lose you again.
