At first, it's got no manners,
eats with its fingers, slurps the soup,
kisses with too much tongue.
It thumbs through my foolscap
of false starts: the moon and both Dippers
wheeling through long red slashes,
a braid of Xs marking a map to nowhere.
It rolls its eyes and lies down
with a cool cloth on its forehead.
All night, imposters ring the doorbell,
darting away like fickle romeos.
I answer each call and do not notice
when inspiration leaves. It returns,
Sunday hat in hands. Show me some ID I say. I am your ambulance, it replies.
And you are my car wreck.