I can’t promise to dance but
I can show you my beer mat
and tobacco pouch collection,
pinned up chronologically
next to the the Playboy Bunny
and ganja leaf baggies;
each one that litters the floor
the same as the ones on the wall before.
I can’t promise you a man
who even knows the theory
of dancing, and only vaguely knows
how to dress himself;
the same jeans for three weeks running,
“fucking horrible” t-shirts,
The same hideous shirts over them,
the same occasional, “Shit, you smell nice”
and someone who takes
far too much pride in his cold-cosy hovel.
Hey, I’m not sure I can even
promise clean underwear.
I can recall everything I’m not
and can’t and shan’t and won’t.
I can do that. I’m pretty good at that.