The Parking Lot

As bison go, I’m reticent to
make a scene. I don’t join in
the daily thundering stampede
around the open range, twisting
in a big cyclone of dirt and hair
and then stand around sweaty as
hell after, good one guys, hi fives,
and nap in the dusty sun.

So this is simply to explain
why my first attempt to deliver
you a note was such a failure.
I didn’t intend to have all
seven hundred thirty seven members
of the herd follow me to your apartment.
I guess one of the more eager
ones saw me leaving and thought
‘Aww shit son it’s a stammmpede’
and then here I am trying to
slip a perfumed letter under your
door while these dumdums are
asking me to keep moving gogogogo
and no place to really run except
up and down your stairs.

Yes, yes I know, that’s why I
asked to meet you here in this lot.
Please, ignore the big shaggy wild-ass
mosh pit swirling, twisting, 
deafening-dumbness
around us. Come a little closer,
I’m so happy to catch you for a moment,
you with your cute little sheepdog ears,
your gentle pant and restless eyes.

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