Oxeye

I was going to pick you some flowers, but rented
a speedboat instead. It skipped along the ocean’s spine
until there was not a current left to fight. I kill the engine
and crack a can, resting my feet on the gunwale.
My eyes moon the blue, out of focus. No flowers
to pick here: just a man and his beer. I crack
another one, and then another, too. She loves me,
she loves me not, she loves me, are flowers your first
choice of flattery, or would you not still swoon to my
Marlboro Reds masking beer-battered breath?
I wonder. Or perhaps instinct is best left undoubted?
I wonder. They say there’s plenty of fish in the sea.
I doubt it. So I’ll sip this sip in the name of simplicity,
until all of my wits spit goodbye in a lisp to me.

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