peter mccormick, i know why
you do not love me.
it is because i am normal.
mediocre, if you may.
i know that you've seen me put the
tissue roll face up. my knees are bowlegged
and scratched a bit. when i was in highschool, i won the science
prize for best in original manuscript.
i whistle in the dark. i believe in God and go to the church regularly to pray for lost souls like tommy harris who painted the town billboards red
last may. i do not drink aspirin. i paint molehills out
of obtuse planets. there are days when i like singing
in the rain. i am a cliche, a round robin.
there are no secret crannies that i plan to take you to.
with me, there would be no nameless lovers
popping out of nowhere, like they do in cinemas.
i have never been to the Pentagon. i have a difficulty
playing scrabble and am comfortable talking in txt lnguge.
oh, peter mccormick, my malady is this:
i am not at all banal. when i wear my hair a certain way
or don a new pink blouse, do you not notice that i am as unique as everyone else?
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