I.

In first grade, Miss Dixon said
I was a genius with glue.

And when my sister stuck her Barbie's hand
into a rotating fan,
I used my faithful Elmer's
to reattach it.

Twenty years later,
the arm and the hand
still cling to each other.

II.

We met on Good Friday night
at a semi-leather bar.

Leaning against the brick wall,
with a vodka and tonic in hand,
you lied to me about your age,
while I tried to hide my sick heart
beneath a bulky red sweat shirt.

You took me home that night two years ago
and introduced me to your cat.

And later,
while you admired my speed-skater legs,
and I your chiseled chest,
Elmer and I were at it again.