Reading the Entrails of Boy Scouts

I know the Easter Bunny
said some things
you wish he’d saved for May
and I know
you keep a bedside window ajar
each loose tooth night
so the tooth fairy has a point
of entry
and I know swashbuckler
is my name in your diary.
I know you find the servitude of escalators
and I know
irony loves the fact that sprinters
must eschew fast food
and I know
you call yourself a slob in front of others
but vacuum four times a day
and run through Q-tips
like a skinhead runs through razors
and swastikas.
I know you get a marble mouth
when put on the spot
and I know you thought vision quests
and circle jerks
were the same thing
up until just eight months ago
and I know
you read the entrails of boy scouts
in your dreams
when you lay on your left side
and perform vasectomies
on your right.
I know you better
than you know yourself.
I guess that’s why
we never got along.

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