I record my voice saying Love me like butter
over and over
and I play it while you sleep. I whisper it in your ear,
while you read poems I write about your hips.
Today I start a Weezer cover band, but I can’t play guitar or drums
or bass or tambourine; hell, I can barely clap standing up,
so I just go Oooh oooh oooh baaaabbyyy into
an unplugged microphone.
You’re the hottest groupie since The Beatles broke up.
I read somewhere that if you do the same thing
consecutively for 21 days it becomes a habit.
Today I begin building an ark in my backyard. It’s been raining
every afternoon for the last 18 days and I’m not taking any chances.
We practice lassoing a giraffe by throwing yards
of tied shoelaces around a light pole outside of my apartment.
Feeling accomplished, we make love on the grass. I put the red ants that crawl
around my lower back into an empty jelly jar. I punch holes
into the lid. The red ants sting me and I hate them some.
Still, I leave a few blades of grass in the jar.
You go to work. I sit on the couch coated in cortisone cream,
watching Shark Week on the Discovery Channel. My hands have nowhere
to go: they hang in my lap: they pull threads
from the seam of my t-shirt.