I had wanted to cuss like Jimmy Connors,
the million dollar kid with dreams.
He was the talk of the town last Sunday night when
the air was sweet and balmy.

Under the influence,
understanding blue skies and trees
like skeletons sleeping away the afternoon
in this paper thin everlasting memory that you can pin on your wall.

I saw the coast lined with words and hospital beds
so I made the phone call to warn you the sun will be setting
so stack the lawn chairs under the awning
and pull out your handgun, paper and pen,
start combing the obituaries for an influence.

You just said “hello” and I said “I was dying because
your kiss was slow,
cold,
upside down with the wheels still spinning”