I am attracted to her walking sticks,
And the flash of white food grinders when she smiles.
I watch her for a while, pushing popcorn into her pie hole.
She tucks her yellow head string behind one small sound saucer
And looks at me with soul windows the color of shiny steel.
I am nervous.
I want to skip ahead to the part where I suck her milk cartons
And feel her taster with my own.
I fast-forward in my thought-stew to a day in the anti-past.
A day when I will know her name and her favorite kind of stuff.
We will sit in front of the fish toilet with squawkers flying overhead.
Her muscle blanket will be smooth and tan, little sun pricks on her smeller.
She will dig her feet-fingers into the sand,
And we will hold arm-claws, laughing over the night we met…
But none of this has happened yet.
And I’m not sure that it will.
I take a step towards her…
My pumper thumps, my walking sticks shake.
And inside my mixing bowl, buzzards swim with the beer.
I cross my text-typers and approach her, hoping for the best.