One star shines brightly—
more than all the others. I
try not to hate it.

Not a Haiku

You remind me of hard rock
and mullets
and Chevys carefully painted with primer;
of boys who never liked me in high school,
who wore hatred as casually as a t-shirt
and as lovingly as a favorite pair of jeans.
And, instantly!, I'm fifteen and ugly again --
feeling alone, fumbling with a cigarette,
wishing you'd deign to just look at me, and
maybe like me just a little.