Arizona
Content
The Poker Guide
My sweetheart deals me cards, for a game I don’t know how to play, As our feet danced a violent waltz. Move your frickin’ feet and he does, onto my leg out of his sandals. Grinning, it’s hard to resist the after beer charms, He’s better after one. The only man who can look Fantastic with beer and Simpson’s chess. Flowing his first language, mine’s loud sarcasm, The man across from us: Angry Spanish. Good job being the reason I bluff. Too drunk, winning all but my $2.50 in 3 hands. But this isn’t about him. This is about the one who for the second time but his head delicately near my bosom. Pining my arms down. It’s legendary, hard to resist, I know. But when my arm falls asleep, I can’t hold him. Our puzzle-piece bodies fit together well enough, shoulders behind shoulders. Outline pressure of his leg, look we match, denim, too bad his has pink stitching and a wallet in the back pocket. Wanna trade but keep those boxer-briefs with the Italian waistband. Because he’ll need them to keep warm when he runs through the snow. I pressed the wrong record button, go again, now I owe him $5, now I don’t because it was the beer’s doing. Droning his name, sweet-little girl “Do you like me? Yes - No – Maybe?” His beer says it’s because I have cool hair. He says it’s because I’m the fun. The fun? I encompass the entire concept of fun? Fine, I’m the fun, He’s the stuff dreamy’s made of. The awesome, The off-this-planet cool. Because he knows I’m lying when I say, “I am very fond of the color blue.” That was my turn to say something, cursed cell phone. Cursed father. As I slip on my coat,
I’m afraid to hug him, As if I’ll shatter the gossamer glass he’s framed in, Blaming the whole evening on the beer and Because my father’s watching. High fives and handshakes Do the trick. His footprints are still in the Snow.
My sweetheart deals me cards, for a game I don’t know how to play, As our feet danced a violent waltz. Move your frickin’ feet and he does, onto my leg out of his sandals. Grinning, it’s hard to resist the after beer charms, He’s better after one. The only man who can look Fantastic with beer and Simpson’s chess. Flowing his first language, mine’s loud sarcasm, The man across from us: Angry Spanish. Good job being the reason I bluff. Too drunk, winning all but my $2.50 in 3 hands. But this isn’t about him. This is about the one who for the second time but his head delicately near my bosom. Pining my arms down. It’s legendary, hard to resist, I know. But when my arm falls asleep, I can’t hold him. Our puzzle-piece bodies fit together well enough, shoulders behind shoulders. Outline pressure of his leg, look we match, denim, too bad his has pink stitching and a wallet in the back pocket. Wanna trade but keep those boxer-briefs with the Italian waistband. Because he’ll need them to keep warm when he runs through the snow. I pressed the wrong record button, go again, now I owe him $5, now I don’t because it was the beer’s doing. Droning his name, sweet-little girl “Do you like me? Yes - No – Maybe?” His beer says it’s because I have cool hair. He says it’s because I’m the fun. The fun? I encompass the entire concept of fun? Fine, I’m the fun, He’s the stuff dreamy’s made of. The awesome, The off-this-planet cool. Because he knows I’m lying when I say, “I am very fond of the color blue.” That was my turn to say something, cursed cell phone. Cursed father. As I slip on my coat,
I’m afraid to hug him, As if I’ll shatter the gossamer glass he’s framed in, Blaming the whole evening on the beer and Because my father’s watching. High fives and handshakes Do the trick. His footprints are still in the Snow.
