If we’re talking about love, then I have to tell you,
dear readers, I’m not sure where I’m headed.
I’ve gotten lost before.
I’ve woke-up stone drunk, face down in the floor.

Late afternoon, the house is hot.
I started. I jumped up.
Everyone hates a bore.
Everybody hates a drunk.

This may be a lit invention.
Professors muddled in their intent
to try to rope-in followers, to float their malcontent.
As for this reader, I’m already spent.

Late afternoon, the house is hot.
I started. I jumped up.
Everyone hates a sad professor.
I hate where I wound-up.

Dear readers, my apologies. I’m drifting in and out of sleep.
Long silence presents the tragedies of love.
Note the age. Get afraid. The surface hazy with attendant thoughts.
A lazy eye metaphor on the rock.

Late afternoon, the house is hot.
I started. I jumped up.
Everyone hates a bore.
Everybody hates a drunk.

Everyone hates a sad professor.

I hate where I wound-up.
I hate where I wound-up.