Poetry

Spooktown, 15 (289.)

He’s one of those nerds,
a little too skinny
with no throwing-arm to speak of,
unless he’s throwing dice
at a tabletop role-playing game.

His hair goes from semi-professionally short
to wishfully-hippie-esque
’cause it’s not a great time for a trim,
and it almost never is,
though he’s kept it on the shorter side
for almost a year now.

He’d wear referential t-shirts every day
if he could get away with it,
but when he needs to perform on the job,
he has a few decent button-ups
that make him look like he knows a thing or two.

He does know a thing or two, but they’re mostly about
which fantasy race sees naturally in the dark,
or which metal is most effective
when fighting supernatural entities,
or which video game series began on this or that console
so many years ago; most days, his head is a sieve
instead of a bowl, and a lot of stuff
just leaks right out.

He thinks he’s a small kind of handsome,
with fine, sharp bones and a sad
lack of flesh, but he prefers
scrawny life to brawny life,
and he thinks
that if he could just find someone who likes that,
someone who can deal with bony edges,
he could have a relationship.

It’s more than that, though.
His physique is small and a little sharp,
but his bearing is sloppy,
and his mind wanders;
he forgets to ask questions of people,
and he doesn’t always
present his thoughts in a way
that is attractive.

Oh well.
He’s a decent scrawny nerd man.
Any chapter now,
he hopes that a new love interest
will be typed into the book of his life.
Today, though, he has
procrastinated too much.
He belays the daydreams
and heads back to work.

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