Raynaud’s Phenomenon

I found you under Mylar
pinned to foamcore.
I found you while Santana’s “Smooth” streamed commercial free.
I found you
in the front seat of a Lexus
(I am not a car man, therefore cannot provide the model).
I found you behind the story of your daughter’s birthday.
I found you
wanting.
I found, once more, a starving liar,
imprinting on the first vibration to emerge from crusty corners of childhood attic.
I found you, sweating, heaving slowly, atop slick dampened linen
while the shower (one of two) ran
in the other room. I
found you in a stray graze of paw,
I found you in eye contact connected by
silent
content
torso.
I found you in the wakeful, separate rising moments of solitary weekends.
I found you fettered to black hens in western golf course.
I found you in moments,
in inches, between unkempt eyebrows.
I found you in recreational drug use references which you never included
myself. I found you
where I left you:
at the end of a nylon line,
salty and twitching.
I found your comparison of my physique to Hollywoodland tinsel flattering.
I thought myself leading you,
but motion is relative
depending
on point A location in relation to solar positions, point B placement to personality phases.
A slave to the praises I
found me in you: desperate for unquenchable, untethered human impulse.
I am the one leaving
heel marks in mud, ruts downhill.
You found me, looking up, imposing arbitrary restriction.
Raise anticipations as dried floor wax after juice-pressed evenings.
“You are a better kisser.”
“Because I meant it.”

Dave McGovern is a Chicago writer, carpet historian, food documentarian, relisher of one note jokes. His work focuses on urban living, agoraphobic wanderlust, and utilitarian emotion.