“She’s crazy,” said the man-boy,

with more mother issues than Cottage Life,

to me – to ME! – the dark-man who always

lives in the shadow of his depression

and refuses to be happy or stick around.

The parade of the deranged and broken

trumpets along through dreams of

Bumble, the bars and many beds.

Bukowski said nobody finds the one,

but he’s wrong and angry and a boy-child like us,

we’re all too busy ghosting or swiping left on her.