Lars Bolt

Even your temples are toned.

You must moisturize like a mother

Because I can’t find forty seven anywhere,

Except for maybe this midlife crisis car

Which I am dying to fill up with Furbies

Because those are the only things more outrageous

Than these character head shots you’re showing me.   

Bare chest. Hard hat.  Matte finish.

And you are doing it! Making a living. Smarming the intern into a date.

Once the light turns green I’m going to plummet you with complements

Watch you bat and gnash them with those pearly white bones.

…

Lars.  He swivels his brag into the bar stool.

He is elbow deep in status and I’m regretting all this lip gloss.

Two glasses in, I finally just tell him,

Buy bigger pants.

Your thighs are googling me.

And cool it with this small of the back business.

You know what I’m talking about.

     Ladies, you know what I’m talking about.

Where they arch you up to borrow your balance?

There’s no way out. 

You’re Souffléd.

…

We may have had a mirage of hope, Larz and me.

When he glowed up a smoke, I did feel a draw

As though I knew I would want to tune in next week.

His deep thumb ashed, and pulled focus down

Sunset Cement, to my Ohio feet, sandaled.

That’s when then numbers came

Like bucketed fish

Wading in the limited oxygen of someone else's catch.  

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