kind of man

I’m all alone on the Internet.

kind of man
Photo by Duncan Adler / Unsplash

by Lindsay Hargrave

My calendar is teeming with snails.

I’m driving 90 and hovering above the pavement.

The camera sees a thirsty fiend.

My wife doesn’t know what to do with me.

I’m falling in love with myself.

I’m forty-six going on fifteen years old.

My phone is possessed.

I’m all alone on the Internet.

The birdhouse I’m building is my childhood bedroom.

My motorcycle fantasies are

unattainable. I’m entitled to one text

every two minutes. It’s a bad day to be a raw egg.

My stomach acid is toxic.

I’m rotten inside but encased in cement.

The bartender is looking at me funny.

My father has always known me.

I’m someone you can’t understand.

There’s a ghost under my t shirt.

My hair will never ever fall out.

I’m going to learn to ride a bike someday.

The people I love will always know it.

My wallet is full of paper fortunes.

I’m hungry for something other than paper.

There’s a noise just behind my right ear.

My home is anywhere I feel warm.

I’m showing my teeth to the security camera.

Oh! The light is so much softer here.

Lindsay Hargrave is a poet, editor at Graphic Violence, and a copywriter for Temple University. Proceeds from their debut chapbook ROT (2022) benefit ARC Southeast. The follow-up, Computer Baby, is available now from Bottlecap Press. 

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