She thanks me with a grimace for the drink,

But when I reach out, tells me we’re not suited,

For all my overtures, I am “intense.”

So what? I left the bar, followed her home,

Skulked behind a Ford trailer, unseen.

My dear, you haven’t seen anything yet.

 

We left the bar at half past one, and yet

I bite and suck my lower lip, and drink

The iron sweat; I’ll wait, for I have seen

The only woman for whom I am suited;

She only needs to ask me to her home,

We could be everything. Is that intense?

 

Perhaps. But I think in the present tense,

And not on petty judgements that are yet

To be substantiated. Her shadowed home–

The light clicks on, her silhouette; I drink

Her in, her shoulder as she shrugs her suit

Jacket upon the chair; I’ve never seen

 

Such a pretty neck, I’ve never seen

Such a soft curl on it, so intensely

I can almost smell her from here. Suit

Yourself, princess, you wait, I’ll have you yet.

But – monstrous! – she pours herself a drink

Was mine not good enough? I quake. Her home

 

Is not so thick-windowed, I see her home

Protection system blinking; I’ve seen

Better and I’ve broken in. A drink–

I need a drink– I bite my thumb, the tense

Tendons give way, I’ve done some damage, yet

I suck my own blood. She says we’re not suited.

 

Black cat, across the street; I’ll show you suited;

My back against the sidewall paints her home

With my DNA; hairs, blood, so easy, yet

I wonder if the FBI will see

Or bother looking this time. Their intense

Focus is still locked on my last week’s drink.

 

The ends I’ll go to for a stupid drink–

It’d suit me better if she weren’t so intense.

Home’s dark… so has she seen anything yet?