Maybe my soul was connected to yours the way a hanging Chad clings to a Florida ballot,
or how a poet tries to use an outdated metaphor.
And maybe our break-up was the reason George W. Bush got elected in the first place.
And maybe I want to get back with you some day when we meet again on that little dusty road called destiny, or maybe you took the road most traveled and I'm skipping along this quite street alone for once. Just me and the night and the twenty-four hour neon signs that flicker
And pulse like a metropolitan heart-beat made of light and gas and the crackling sound that it makes with a sharp buzz like a fly near my ear and I hit it
And it dies.
Maybe that's how it really was.
Though, I don't recall it ever really being anything like that.