rival amateurs.

there’s an itch out there –
air scratches along branches
flaking sycamore dander
from scalps –
his manicured fingertips
pulp from fleshy lawns
let up onto and across asphalt and corpus callosum
and all those snaps unsnapping about,
hankies in the air.
you fuckers, everywhere.

it’s crisp outside, which rattles up
a little electricity
and smooth answers
no conditioning nor chamomile can tame.
he makes a few broad strokes
pollenates the road
and sees a spectrum.
but it isn’t his and he knows it.
he’s got an itch, though.

he scratches deeper,
aerates more;
answering nothing,
but thinking clearly.
with his dick.

i wrote him a letter once.
he never got it.
my therapist asked me to keep it instead.
i climbed to the top of a sycamore.
from my pocket, behind my hanky, i removed
the crumpled letter,
and secured it with my knife to the trunk.
and leapt into the yard,
unseen, unheard, unfelt by even the sycamore.

he’ll never climb that tree
there in his own yard, out past the owl.
he’ll run away first,
scared to face
the mess he made
of the asphalt,
and his neighbor’s yards.
but he’ll write
and from a distance
he’ll toss little airplanes
to keep an air electric
and the itch

we’re not so different, he and i.
we’re static
hankies snapping
in electric winds.