FAUX FUR OR
HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING
AND LOVE DIGITAL CABLE

It has been a month since I came in your eye
and I have been since contemplating my fauxs:
–apology and –pas. I did mean it when I said
it was an homage to your favorite A Tribe Called
Quest song, and I did go, not unhumiliated,
to CVS to acquire a carton of Q-Tips at your
request. In penance I will be your lollipop,
your Pop Rocks, or your Schoolhouse Rock:
your choice of metaphor. And however you’d have
me abase myself, I will: be scratching post for one
of your litany of decadent and wheezing cats; be a human
de-Sade-style coffee table to freak out your parents
when they dot in for a visit. I will cut my breathing rate
in half for you, prepare vichyssoise in a slow cooker
with my mind. I know you want me greased like Edward
James Olmos in a Speedo in the eighties: so okay, I will
be your fucking rocket. Your Crockett, your cigarette
boats cresting towards horizon. I will be all vector
amidst vector, propulsion and propellant and propeller.
I will stay if you ask me to. But if you dispel our love
like haze or missile cloud or myth— if you lose me
like a syllable in dialect, start wearing ermine, fox,
stop eating lox and butter— I’ll be bitter for my loss
and yours and the vacuum gape that grows between us,
widens underneath us, widows us. I will either get angry, get over it,
or get myself into something else entirely new. But for now,
all of this for you. And you. And you. And you.