Another Fucking Facebook Demystification

I met a man and a man met me
Though I have heard he’s denied it.
I met him in the budding season
He wore his hair like a gentleman.
In between something quite serious and
Something full of play, like our hero Hugh Grant
Like Hugh Grant on the twenty dollar bill.
Me, my hair, my likeness, well
Picture anyone. Is that too hackneyed?
Well then picture a twenty-one teeth smiling schoolgirl.
And then the borrowed motorcycle boots of my roommate
And then frenzied references to literature
And then skirts
And then the bottle.
The blessed dear thing.
In a movie I saw later that year
An older man and a younger woman were having an affair.
In a New York hotel they clutched at each other.
There was a bottle of whiskey on the dresser. Naturally.
I said out loud. To my sister’s empty apartment.
I wonder if I would wonder where he is, whom he’s with
If I didn’t already know quite well
I wonder if I’d try to cross his path

on the avenues of the university

in the casual dress of someone who's labored, and utter

the casual remarks of someone who's rehearsed for hours in the street-parked car

"I see you're still trolling around the schoolyard when the bell rings"
I enjoy demoralizing myself, you see. I enjoy destroying

any burgeoning illusion of self-respect.

I enjoy a good terrifying shame.