I spend my formative years so engrossed in Friends
that the show becomes a period piece about me

on a couch—
a plaid period piece, where I learn what an orgasm is
and the lyrics to ‘Baby Got Back’

I spend them loaded up on bad haircuts and neat
platonic sentiment

till one day, six white heads in a fountain overlay
you serving me food on a cushion
I don’t know yet

that old things get better
in the time you spend considering them, just that

there’s a theme song to the tune of us
domestically expanding. I wonder lately

if you cyberstalk me sometimes
in an ode to our hormones—

some clashing and un-clashing of chemical remembrance—

because to me, you’re a warm gas-ball of
familiarity: a heat I can stand in

but with midday, burn-your-eyes sunlight. I’m planning
a powerplay on the level of a live TV strip tease

like Drew Barrymore getting down on
David Letterman’s desk. A picture on the web to say

I am this now—
thighs out for the void and hoping
that you’re in it

Because I know old things get better
in the time you spend considering them, and that

I should harden,

and I will—

on David Letterman’s desk

So I compartmentalise you into a corner, next to
denim feel and coffee shops

I compartmentalise you into my ignorance
of correct cognitive functioning, like a sock

I fold into another sock then leave
in a drawer. I ask big questions like:

If I trip on the sidewalk and no one’s there to see it
does God insert a laugh track?

If I meet you in a doorframe
does my musical heartburn swell?

When you next see me, I will be Drew Barrymore
showing her tits
to David Letterman on Late Night TV—that is,

using a very public medium to remind you I have tits