Delete Poem

Windows cannot delete “you;” it is invisible
and even shy. We were freezing
with two pairs of gloves on while I tried
to show that electron motion means
the internet is a thing, under the routine helicopters.
It’s real easy to get a list of psychos’ habits
and try them out just for fun;
you can end up learning to read 10 times faster
or calculate the area of a big ol’ fat person’s back,
covered in a bad floral, smelling like scorched oil
under a car that was paid for in the 80s.

Amtrak has cornered the market on places
where you could dump a body, and no one 
would ever find it, despite Google Earth.
She woke me up without moving:
With a Thong in My Heart, that Bill Clinton joke.
I mistook a dozen people for you
in various lines for things
I thought you could barely afford,
based on your usual lotion, 
which you didn’t wear that day.