“Whatever you do, don’t fall in love with Jason.”

You gape at the twin of yourself who purposely rode into you with her electric Divvy bike. Except it’s not a twin at all. You don’t even have a twin, not that you know of. This not-twin who looks exactly like you is wearing your ripped jeans, your yellow sweater with the broken zipper, and your scruffy checkered Vans you bought back when you thought you were a skater.

I have no truck
with planning ahead, and thus
from a frosted upstairs window
watch my forlorn Mini Cooper disappear
beneath a white shroud
(and who knows
what the kid next door will charge
to dig it out)
a larger concern is the wind–
well, not the wind

Villagers swarm the police station
there’s a marijuana issue across town,
a marijuana issue!
Folks are unlawfully getting stoned!
Chief soars out smelling like the finest indo
don’t worry people; we will solve it, carry on!
Please carry on!

Let us now praise famous men:
Praise is wholesome, by and large—
you know they need it now and then
because they’re famous, because they’re men.

I guess there wasn’t a way
this wouldn’t have happened

when I show up late
to a party where everyone
has done shots since midafternoon