The Profiler

They ask about Cain,
and say ‘fuck Abel.’
Red eyes boiling,
like a pot of crayfish.
It stinks.
It stings.

I slip it on, an oily, cloying mask.
The eyes are too wide,
the forehead’s not right,
and there’s a name in this head.

A sonnet is still a sonnet,
if you spell it out in ligature marks.
Music notes and bars and things,
still sound just as fine.

If two plus three is five,
then she’s a dime,
by Son of Sam’s reckoning.
And she walks in wet and tall
and full and glowing.

Oops.

I remember her blond hair,
it flowed and flowed
and I thought I should cut it.

She sees me watching her,
from an elevator door.
I think she knows what I want,
and I’m thrilled.

I can smell her campfire,
smoldering,
but wild with zesty dreams,
a glimmering veneer,
and I see the ring.

Dull gold.
She twists it.
I smile.

But I’m not half as crazy,
as your average certified man,
so I walk away,
and rub my thighs with the palms of my hands.
And I swear, one last tour of duty.

If I can get in his mind, I can get out.

I can get out.

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