I waste the morning in bed eating Talenti and chocolate-
covered almonds infused with cannabis.
The only people I’ve talked to in weeks are the father
and son who own the corner store.
The father blocked me on a meat market of an app.
My ego compulsively licks its wounds.
Your type, a friend texts me, is the kind of man
Lee Pace could play in his sleep: cerebral, imperious.
Books cover the other half of my bed.
In the one I’ve nearly finished, a prince becomes a hermit,
his soul growing receptive and active
like a plant consuming green flies.