Niceville
Collin Callahan
A woman with hair like a telephone
line full of birds
touched my face and asked me
to her place
for lobster ravioli.
Her laugh scratched
like the concrete underbellies
of park district swimming pools.
I told her about
the television judge. After cinnamon
speckled tiramisu
she slipped me a kiss
and tightened my earmuffs.
The world grew
quiet and I learned to converse
with my fingers. They told me
I am no good.
They told me
she moved to a goat farm
in Vermont.
The sun tips
over like a giant egg.
I inhale
computer duster through a red straw.
