The woman down the hall
is trying to stop cursing,
so occasionally you’ll hear her yell
“Jiminy Cricket” (which I get) or
“Crumb Cakes” (which I don’t).
Leave your coat on.
It stays pretty cold in here.
Maybe wrap yourself
in a blanket while we watch The Virgin Spring
or listen to Suicidal Tendencies bootlegs.
Either one’s fine with me.
I’m up for anything, really.
One time, when I was a mover,
I threw a washing machine
over a basement stair rail
to another mover who managed to catch it.
Women loved the other mover
because he could do things
like catch a washing machine
single-handedly, but also because he was pretty.
The woman who owned the washing machine
kept telling us she used to date Neil Young.
When I got home, I was so sore,
I just sat on the couch and watched
a Frankenstein movie from the 1940s.
This story should impress you.
I don’t know why.
Maybe the implication is my heart
pumps fire though I lack imagination,
problem-solving skills.
One day, I’ll run out of stories like this,
and I’ll have to explain the bedsheets
I use as curtains, the crates I use for furniture.
At some point, I should tell you
how the hum of electricity helps me fall
asleep in my clothes,
the faces the snow makes on my windshield.
I wasn’t meant to be alone.