Younger for Older
Did your smile always accordion like that
Did you have the same fears as I do now
Will you pay for the second round
Am I an ego trip on the highway home
Am I just a fun experiment
Moot point, I suppose
If I peek into your credenza drawers, will I free some smoke
If I follow that smoke, will it lead to a half-burnt house
If I enter, will I find a man sitting in the smoldering ruins
Will I gasp when he raises his wounded face
Is this sympathy or smoke I’m tasting here
Did I ever know the difference
Trompe-l’œil
I don’t remember agreeing to these
horizons. Oleophobic lacquer
on the glitter-spritzed bar, on the floor,
on the mustachioed man drinking by
the door. Hirsute forearms and
cracked screens. I’m ready to die,
our protagonist whispers down
to Siri, if only so I can stop trying to be
hot. Portrait-mode: Midas once put
his wanton hand on mine, but
all I did was rust. The only law here is
the figure eights from a sparkling
zip, finding friends in the strobe light
jump scares, is that an Internet star? Spit
on the SIM, fire up the misery
device—if only for me, for us, for
reconnaissance. I compare and loosen,
weirdly satisfied. Yes, a star. Rip off
the screen-protector. What wicked
knowledge: that beautiful men like
beautiful paintings can be dissolved
to a mess of strokes. Scented pomade
strokes, bronzer lotion strokes.
1s and 0s. And what to do
with this information? We sigh
in ancient unison, adding it to the tab.
Jeremiah Moriarty is a writer from Minneapolis. His poems and stories have appeared in The Rumpus, swamp pink, Puerto del Sol, Diode, Catapult, The Cortland Review, and elsewhere. His favorite revenge story is a tie between Frankenstein and everything Tabitha did on Passions (1999-2008).
