Postman boyfriends me.
Postmodern dating site described
him as into lip service.
Postcard image promises
Post-apocalyptic panties.
Says he’s completing a post-doc
fellowship as the
Selenoplexia poster child.
We go to that trendy, post-war
place.
Later, post-kiss, we
post an ad on craigslist.
He asks me my plans
post-life.
I shrug, and say maybe
I’ll blog.
He shares a secret,
wishes he could
hold
postage hostage.
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