The First Love Poem I've Ever Actually Meant

The First Love Poem I’ve Ever Actually Meant
by Peter Funk
In my fortieth year
my head becomes a pin cushion
for a constantly evolving army
of bad ideas and circular regrets,
an emotional petri dish growing
dusty grey-green wisps of fuzz
that make me gag or, at best,
sneeze inconsolably.
No medicinal value at all.
My nights are spent trying to sleep
on the dance floor of heyday Studio 54:
a few thousand ideas,
coked out of their heads,
writhing on my pillow.
If you think this has anything to do
with angels or sunlight
you’ve never woken at 4 am
with an unconditional affinity for wind mills
and wasp nests poked by the wooden handle
of a rake.
Like a mangy dog dragging
his flea ridden ass across a shag carpet,
in fact the very shag carpet that rubbed
your knees raw the first time you made love
to your high school girlfriend,
all the lights in the house out,
your parents asleep in a motel
outside Ithaca, New York,
your stunned realization
that you were actually inside another person,
how you begged her to open her eyes,
I’m looking for a little relief.
I’m starting to think like Custer
the night before Little Big Horn.
He must have slept like a baby
under his woolen blankets
warmed by the comfort of a plan
no matter how misguided or ill conceived.
It’s funny how car keys and door knobs
become subjects of conversation.
Fuck the sunsets.
Fuck Bogart and his beautiful friendship.
I’m ready to trade it all in
for what’s behind door #3,
as long as it’s more than three hours of sleep,
as long as it’s a brief stillness,
as long as it’s you.