Home Base

Before tonight, you should know
that I have too many nicknames
to count, but my favorite is copper
because it doesn’t make any sense in
a time
when everything has its label
and proper place.
Know that I flipped the table upside
down
and walked in with the emerald covered
helmet
that you gave to me last winter—
that I remember the ringing ears and
grazing hands.
Before you dream,
you should know that my education
costs
more than a small island off the coast of
east Canada
and that I can sing all 50 capitals in a
row.
You should know: I forget
breaking glass and ripping papers,
and that I’m short but average,
and nothing more
than that.
I see in black and white,
all Times New Roman.
Capitalized,
like a formula waiting for the right
answer,
because otherwise,
I’ll reveal too much and you’ll leave
early. Before you dream tonight, know
that the addictive
base lines and hollowed out voices have
curled
into me, the stale beer stench spooling
between the electrons on my skin,
but I’ve forgotten
jaded smiles and hard covered
authors.
Before you dream of me tonight,
you should know that I get lost in
the container store
because I like to organize, but I
don’t know
where to put myself.

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