Peter Gunn lives in
romances like coffee.
not quite cool enough
but ‘warm so it won’t make a mess in the car’ ro-mances.
all day long at the beach, finger in the sand until the tide comes in
‘wipes off the pictures you drew but it’s worth it’-mances.
evenings at the mall, Crate and Barrel, spice racks and sweaters after work.
fights in front rooms, wax off the floors,
blood on lime-green snake-skin sneakers.
broken arms, well designed living rooms.
ruin a perfectly good sofa for everybody.
I’d like to have coffee in the
staring at pictures.
my girlfriend next to me sitting up, falling back, in a sea of white paper cups
popping up in the air with fountains of deep brown coffee producing creamy runs of frothy white milk and toffee across me when I try to pull her out of it.
a strobe-lit installation.
a mascot bunny.
romances like that I mean to have someday.
A Saturday morning corporate meeting on level 16 of a very tall building.
“I’m that new colour all you kids wear everyday like you’re stylish.”
“If we could put each other away we would.”
big tired prom nights.
I read a book in the sun and my eyes get soft.
point pelee, sandals, how far out can I go when
all things have packaging,
enough modifiers to be everest,
and your love is great on the cedar lawn chair in my apartment.
children and trees.
be cleric to the earth.
The Block is Hot
in excessive detail