I need a placebo. I am ready for one.
It doesn’t matter who it is,
I am ready to buy in.
It’s long winter, after all, the nights
lonely and cold.

Maybe it’s an inappropriate clementine
from a washed-out harmonica player
who trolls bars for women
who are prone
to mistaking washed-out for clean.

Maybe it’s a story about all the stories
a vainy rosacea reporter broke—
‘cept the one about falling asleep
at the wheel as weed spiraled
from his whirring muffler.

Maybe it’s a passionate kiss from a guy
with more sperm than he can count,
calls his baby mommas cunts
to boost his half-mast status
with foolish college girls.

Maybe it’s a beautiful blue-eyed man
who wishes he were still a boy, and I fall
for him and I take care of him
until he suicides
and I am forced to take care of myself.

Or maybe it is none of the above
(the correct answer is “E”). It is
not a placebo I need, but two cats
who sit all day on the windowsill,
waiting for me to come home.