Older theaters have wooden seating
It creaked when I slid into him
And groaned when I leaned away
To see in the dark

His glasses, one arm up, the other down
I took them because the play was giving him a headache
Was dull

I have only one profile of him
I have a hundred front-on teasers
But each of them is wearing a scratchy navy cop coat
The cuffs sliced his fingers in half

And all I could see were the half-hands I can’t stop writing about
How I lost at Operation
Or why I never found the good Easter eggs

Those booted me to my medley of obsessions
It was like armadillo shells around each of his fingernails
I noticed his ears too
His hair had the texture of canned peaches








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