Steve Martin shakes my hand. It’s weak.
He sits down, crosses his legs and winks.
He has a voice like a hairdryer but still
my nails dig into my knees, scrawling
amateur caligraphy into the skin. Chin
up. No, chin down. The hard part is deciding
you want to ask the question at all. He says,
“Have you always been like this?” I guess
it’s a shame but it’s also true. Letters are not vessels
to fill with midnight dough-balls of thought
but the tip-tap-typing punctuates the silence.
Then again, words are a rhyme a dozen.
Sorry, this is such a beige poem but it’s late and I’m so tired but simultaneously so reluctant to sleep and I am behind on my 365 project and I shouldn’t use so many conjunctions in one sentence.