There's a truth in wanting someone,
but today I'm a misanthropic liar.
Just in time for muscle aches, mild mannered married women
and the overflowing cusp of ass-meat and too-young flat deliveries.
A wicked homogeny of dull rejection.
Sends me moaning to my authritic wrist,
and a firm grip around my thick
perfectly round shot glass.
Contact lists of don't call back
never call me
never called
Practice girls
Broken hearts
and shameless flirts
So I'll just have to tie up in my own arms
and call it quietly a month.
Baseball is on that quiet death of post-season and swept indifference.
I can hardly identify.