Ask Anyone Who Knows

If you sit on my chair
you'll see dozens of people
farming their instincts out of habit
on my lap, which is really only denim and flesh.
Killing time fudges things up,
makes the street appear smudged
like a film full of poorly lit jump-cuts,
all redundant and dull.
I might rub cream into a soft shoulder,
as though I had a shoulder
to rub cream into. Let the last
light of autumn bend shadows
around the block and thrust honeyed light
through the apartment at horizontal
angles. In the meantime, I'm going to dance around
like an ass clown in Brooklyn under a cavalcade
of really great things all fucking day.