Even if I could help myself
arguing every inch of the case
for why I should be allowed
to wear boxers
and nothing else
on the weekends,
because every day
I wear pants and a belt
is another day I've compromised my soul
and diluted what faith I have left in
mankind's ability
to coexist with nature
while looking for that little extra
centimeter of a twitch of your lip
that tells me you're upset
because I beat you
to the seat on the good half of the couch
with the armrest that still had
threads on it
while you were busy
getting dressed
and nothing else,
I don't think I would.
Even if I could help myself
plucking your drawers
from the dresser and
shuffling their positions
like playing cards
before you get home
I don't think I would.
Even if I could help myself
eating the rest of the 24
ounce chocolate bar
while you sleep like a rock
so you won't have to
look at it in the morning
I don't think I would.
Even if I could help myself
buzzing and hissing
like a tea kettle brewing guffaws
on top of the flames
of your florid cheeked
closed fisted, lemon lipped, rage
I don't think I would.
Even if I could help myself
collecting get well cards
on the cork board in my cube
because I faked dysentery
on your birthday
to get that coincident day off
I don't think I would.
Even if I could help myself
standing at the corner
of 8th and Sagenaw,
checking my empty messaging inbox
on my cellphone after you wave
goodnight and head for
the cab you called when we finished
splitting a beer and cocktail tab
waiting for that little extra
backward glance
through the night light
obscured rear window
that tells me you might have
held my hand
if this was a date
I don't think I would.