you can slowly meet him screen-to-eye
and imagine how it all will play out.
you can scan his background without bothering
to buy the box of wine you would have needed in three months to dissect the
disgusting details of the night he suddenly stopped calling.
you can tell by his kitchen cabinets,
he would have taken approximately
six-to-eight months to betray you
utterly and completely.
or you can tell by this one’s shirt-tail
you would have never spoken on the phone
the sexual, dragon-fire spark would have dwindled out to the inevitable flop–
a slithery maze of texts, a relationship which eats its own tail.
But you can decide, preemptively,
NOT to eat your words
NOT to gain the weight …
NOT to buy The Ice Cream of Defeat,
The Tortellini Pesto of Shame,
The Pinot Grigio of Disillusionment.
you can simply drag your smooth fingertip
(or new, pink stylus—should you not want to sully hands in
this process!) across your tool–
the smartest of phones!
quickly, you may expediently hiss “nexxxxt!” in a self-satisfied stage whisper.
Then off he slides to the left!
And up pops the next item to be scanned in the
express lane of risk-free romantic expediency.