I flirt

with pigeons. I like the staccatoshillyshally of their heads. I flirtwith waitresses, lifeguards, gymattendants. Who doesn't?I flirt with GoodCook scissors,X-Acto knives, plasticbags. The electrictranscendence at the end of a marathon.I flirt with podium finishes, or rather,they flirt with me.Yes, to men and Kawasakis. I flirtwith missed opportunities.They taste like coffee groundsand Merlot from last November.I flirt with mountains, that Icarus crave.With quadriceps, trapezius, the wholecollective ballast of muscles.I flirt with my husband. Sometimesit works and we fuck like jackrabbits.Other times, he laughsand I crawl off to lifeas a dishrag.My thumbs flirtwith nihilism. They gougethe skin from each other's cuticles.I flirt with speed trials, blood drives.I want to drainmyself dry.I flirt with transplants, the ideaof off-loading organs. I flirtwith the uncertain value of livers,ventricles, the vertebral canal. I don't knowif I should coddle mine or wringthem hard while I have the chance.I flirt with seagulls — the plasticdefinitude of their eyes.I flirt with off-whitelinoleum and the guardrailof the 18th Street Bridge.With immortality. It tasteslike aspartame.