Whole walks home eyes honing on hairlines
receding temples, and asking myself
what constitutes a cover-up?
Am I implicit in a comb-over,
split from the middle?
The date I knew, your Honour,
was either April 13 or 14. Realize
I rarely bestow sirs on anyone
—an, I guess, I guess I give to defer.
Given up saluting drivers, settled on a nod.
Given more fingers than hands to strangers
since whenever. Middle or end of March.
Excuse me my male gaze but do you look like me
with a haircut? All the men with chrome domes
who could teach me a thing about razors I troll
—those men who were boys with me. Know me.
Men who scroll by in another part of Canada.
Switch bodies with someone five seconds
and fuck I adjust everything I can
tucking in my mirrors, coming home at one
with sad music nine tracks in. Friends,
may this one reach you in need of a laugh.
This is the weather you expect of April.
I log in as Shaggy Jeff and look at women.