ROMANTIC
I'm one of maybe
the final generation
of them.
I see this woman
sitting outside
that cafe
with the
New York Times
and, well,
something as simple
as the curve
of her neck
sets me off.
By the time
I've walked
a block
I've already
made love to her
in my head,
and
by the end
of the next block
I've married her.
Don't know
a thing about her.
Who knows,
she could be
poisoning
her husband
with anti-freeze,
sewing
Nazi armbands.
But I've got this
little piece of radium
or something
down near
my amygdala
that flares up
in the slightest
breeze.
Maybe
I'm being
selected out
of our
not too successful
species,
I mean,
still thinking
about her
I could step off
the curb
in front of that truck
now gearing up
to get out of town.
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