Blow In

I am, for all intents and purposes, intentionless and purposeless
Coming and going as I please, and pleasing myself in the starry passage of time
Twenty-seven, the year we die

I am no one’s Prince Charming
I exist
a magazine insert floating to the ground, stiff as a boy on prom night
Wild windswept
words printed upon my chest, promises of worth

I am, with rare exception, morose and humorless and inarticulate
and deathly sober
Bemoaning the fate of the world and the statuses of my friends
on the other side of morning
Waking up their children and promising them they are liked

I am nothing if not clean
kind, considerate, concerned
a paragon of virtue and heterosexual, monogamous nigh-chastity
nothingness is next to Godliness

I am
that I am