I’m the stupidest boy in the room

and I use half my fingers

to get the make out music started on the speaker

buttons and bra straps aren’t braille to me

even seeing them, I glide my fingers across

feel the bumps, like for fun

and fail to bridge between form and function
we mix like some poor alchemy

caught halfway between a drum and a haiku
hot and nasty like some microwaved peach pie

sat all last night open on the kitchen bench

the residue clings just the same

more often is it a game we’re still making up

with less tools than Yahtzee and more moves than chess

looking like the first two kids

to pin the tail near the donkey