I met you, drafty hellos meant to couple with a smile, on the bus and by the dirty dumpster where i give up my receipt and search for bologna-on-rye.

You were wearing a tousled turn of the hair, appalled. And shoes that wove this way and that, like your eyes, that were blue with a dash of interloping sparkle.

Me: dastardly, cunning, dumb-stupid dumbfuck of a vulnerable child who might as well be half-wit-half-way to death. I am, says my mother. But Lord, I have a cock the size of Africa.

Call me?