We’re Without a Title, But She’s Got a Clean One

Maybe dreams do come true.
I got a Bug, not the Bug,
but it’s a beginning.

Plain black t-shirt,
black jeans, tan boots.
No sunglasses. Your hair’s growing.

The only other part
that really matters
is the part where you’re single.

I still love your style,
but can’t keep my eyes
from undressing you.

This poem is about
too many things,
not sure where the sense is.

My mind wanders.
My mind wonders
if this is the conversation we’d have.