Suspending reality, I decide
five famous people I would kiss,
given the chance, would be John Cusack
who’s been on my list for twenty years,
and Billy Boyd with his tookish grin,
and Patrick Warburton,
but only if he asks in his Kronk voice and if he won’t
then Dave Matthews (and his Jimi thing).
The next kiss is a tie between Michael Schoeffling
and Clint Eastwood
the way he was the day I was born—
whoever says yes first.
I’m listing for Mike. Or maybe somebody new.
The last kiss would be for the Indian brother
from "Last of the Mohicans"
and does he count as famous
if all I know is his face, and his body,
but not his name?
And since we’re suspended, five kisses times two
(and then some) that should’ve been, but never were:
John, forever John, John the beginning
of all past regrets,
& Terry & Perry & Anders & Todd & Reyn & Steve & Steve & Scott & Thad & Craig & Corey & Ken
whose names are waste, because waste is what I do.
And because nothing can keep us from ourselves,
and sometimes lust is stronger than fear
five kisses to take away:
Pete, and Leland’s roommate
whose name I don’t remember,
and maybe never knew,
and Bob in the bedroom, but not in the hot tub,
and Randy, who might have sent me to jail,
but only got me fired,
and any kiss I gave my ex after he slept with his girlfriend before I knew.
And then five kisses that will never be:
my therapist, whom I no longer see,
and Brandon, whose fear was bigger than my own,
and Bill the elephant guy,
who was the beginning to the end of waste,
and Chris, who wasn’t waste,
but was married and had three kids,
and Jim, who wants to,
but I don’t.