Jacob Butlett

Boyfriend


a palimpsest based on Karin Gottshall’s “More Lies”

Somedays I say I’m going to hang out with my boyfriend—
even though I have no boyfriend—simply because the truth
is too hard to bear. I’ve always felt lonely, ever since

I was a kid, closeted, in remedial reading classes,
unable to grasp the simplest books. Today, I drove
alone down icy streets, wearing a flannel scarf, hoping

pedestrians might wonder where I was going. I borrowed
a book of poems from the library, the building windows
frosted. August flurries are a kind of omen, but I pay

the cold no mind. I tucked the book under my arm
and sat in a park gazebo. I like the alabaster boughs.
I like how my boots squeak and squawk on snow

like birds singing to one another, a playful tune,
a seductive trill, or just a friendly chat. Just then,
I saw two men strolling by, holding mittened hands.

I thought about reading the poems, but I couldn’t look
away from the men as they passed by. All over town,
there are men, single and kind. None of them are mine.