Strange Things (poem)

You whistle at me outside
Stata, wave your arms
in a salute. I cock
my head towards you as I move
away from a sign post.
I say: Was that for me?
And you say: Well, I saw this
hot chick. If I was in my car,
I would honk. We laugh until

we are close enough to touch
and then you swallow me
in your arms. I say: You give the best
hugs and you lead me in

to the maze of the MIT monstrosity
on the corner of Main and Vasser,
let me try out your thousand-dollar
chair, and for the next twenty
minutes, we live like we are what
we never and always were: together.
You show me the uncomfortable
couches after I reenact shoving
shoppers. You teach me
the new word you made up
while I spoof the dialogue on Sex
and the City. We spend more time

in back story, limitless jokes taped
to our insides, barely finishing
sentences, letting phrases linger,
finished off by deft winks. On our way

out, you say I like strange things
and I shrug under Stata’s awning
and smile only for the you
who whistles and holds me tight