Can’t read yet. Scanning the scenery in the packed parking lot, surveying the menu of movies. Chattahoochee. We’re on the beat. Just moment to moment enjoyment.
Tinker Tailor in the background, with subtitles. A lot of info.
“That’s a lot to do, so don’t do anything, please.”
Faith kicked me right between the eyes. “I have done just enough.” Fatal Attraction is my favorite. “This is incredibly tough, too much to be inspiring.”
Here he is. A gathering around a mentally ill agent recruited from an illness we all can relate to.
“Yes, my receipts match.”
Who said the dirty cop is not in the beating of my heart? I am just a victim of desire. Maybe arrested soon.
“No stranger. Don’t ask me why.” He would only take in love, he said, that flustered agent.
“Just the facts, ma’am?”
Looking down to read the news, the bit that it was.
It’s later. A little bit pent up. It’s a mile of a day. I’m in the absence of being puzzled. The sun is also hot. Getting up out of a sense of humor.
Though it feels good to ignore, entering into the reality that that dude still exists. “Eh, what an asshole.”
Nevertheless, deep and hollow that obsession. But, when was I young? I just remember I was hurt by that attitude. Now, you’d assume people turn a blind eye anymore.
“Nobody assumes I do that,” he says.
Essential was his growth with women.
“They really plan to challenge your insecurity.”
“Anyway, consider the source.”
He sensed her attitude, her natural comfort and culture. “Long overdue,” she says.
Hmmm, yes. Our receipts matched.
Muscle Poems 
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