When do we stop looking?

I know some who have pulled the carapace tight.

They view our flawed, fractured outside-world

with a righteous suspicion.


I’m told there is a dating app for people with fat-bellied debts, high libido, non-life-threatening STDs, back problems, filthy artistic urges, a few small skin cancers, jazz fanatic, drinks in massive moderation, poor sense of style, extensive body hair, ex-military pacifists & a loopy laugh. Men or women or neither.


Toby logs on daily, waves & winks

to a point it looks like seizures.

Half the responders don’t want sex,

the others don’t want coffee.


Stephanie previously just sorta tripped into relationships,

no recollection of need or strategy.

But now the bars are all crusty,

work is more fences than friends

& 54 is (but doesn’t feel) bloody old.


These two catch a movie, the 14th remake

of a 19th century classic (guaranteed chick-magnet)

then off to dinner at a favourite place

that Stephanie was sure used to be classier.

Toby remembers to ask her about herself.

There’s laughter as they both stuff it up

& as a result, I have every hope.

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