Just looking for a good time—Right, Babe?

Bananas rot faster near each other,  

and so do the deadeyes in a Midwest town,  

shuffling on sticky floors, talking for hours  

about nothing, trading beers and tired words.  

How smart we sound when we repeat

what someone else has said.  

And we wonder about us:  

Do you like us? Are we cool? Do we sound cool?  

As if anyone heard our words over the speakers  

or remembered us through the haze,
or ever really cared—
too busy rehearsing borrowed thoughts,

a furrowed brow looks like listening,  

but it’s only the pause

before they speak—

to impress us.

The next morning, we spread  

"I can’t believe it’s not friendship!" on our toast,  

then head to another bar, another crowd—  

our needs coded beneath the dermis

while everything around us has divorced itself  

from real connection,  

built in silent communion, action from necessity,  

not selected from an array of choices.

A plea from empty soul to empty soul:  

"Need me, don’t want me."  

But we’re both too consumed by the now  

to hear anything but our own desires.  

In the dead of night, the town shouts,  

"What about meeee?"