the flare, isn’t there

electric lights, under storm clouds

the woman, doesn’t care

She travels to Bogota, Columbia—living out of her suitcase

not even bothering to change

her underwear

I ask her on a date, like reoccurring rain

she politely declines, opening her red umbrella, with a smile on her face

afraid of getting wet.

She takes baths in water, and runs away from me

She stands in the sun

and wilts, like a sunflower


but without the rain, she complains

for water

it must be bottled, purified, 100%, H2O

“I need to get famous,” I tell my friend.

“You’re enough,” he says.

“I know I’m enough for me,

but I’m not enough for her.

She runs away,

to foreign countries.

She’s going to Georgia next,

despite the war.

She escapes,

unafraid of death.

I wish God could intervene (on my behalf)

but he always sends me a woman I don’t want.”

“Use her, to meet her friends,” my dateless friend of a decade tells me

“I can’t do that.”

“Women do it to men, all the time—they play coy—now, it’s time for some payback.”

I don’t care anymore…

I’ll probably end up scratching my balls

at the end, of my unromantic life

wondering why

the woman

didn’t work-out.

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