Love

Someone sent me a book.

I don’t know who.

The woman from downstairs

is in the apartment of the man next door.

I know she is in love with him

because when I had my ear pressed against the wall

I heard the way she looked at him.

I have a lava lamp

and a small book of poems.

I dream of a time where nothing matters

I dream of a space where I don’t need anyone,

where no one intervenes.

The woman who cut my hair tonight

put in some gel

which smells nice.

My ex-wife’s neighbor is cooking meth.

She is very afraid but won’t call the cops.

I dream of a life where no one needs me to advise them

to take care of them, to care for them

yet

I lie.

All poems are lies

All wishes are lies

Because I also dream about a woman who wants me all consumingly

I also dream this life

with its tentacles that ensnare me

with its numbing repetitive work

and imbecilic bosses.

I also dream of lovers abandoned, hurt, lost, hateful, or dead.

Love is not the answer

It is the question.