I know she does not like poetry. Not because she does not like poetry. Not because this is a Thing about her that I know, or that we are Expected to know. Not because she has said this to me, in her voice like bees across the spine of my book: I do not like poetry. Not because I have seen her turn her gaze in agitation away from any particular stanzas. In fact I may have even heard her utter praise for Whitman, or sigh longingly at the mention of the careful constructions of Dickinson, or even Plath. She probably read a lot of poetry in High School, probably copied verses into the pages of her own journals, adding annotations of her own.
I know she does not like poetry because she hasn't the time. She simply reads too fast.

I've got some bad news. I am not going to suck your dick while you're driving.
But I've got some good news, too.

allie

we get low to floor