She fake cries at Sandy Bullock movies.
She gets her hair cut in Petaluma
(where I must drive her).
She makes me pay, and stiffs them on the tip.
She wants me to buy her lip liner, eye shadow.
She scatters pages of Glamour magazine
on the kitchen table, showing me brands and colors.
She wears big boots and clomps around
when I want to sleep.
She makes French toast and puts raspberry jam on it.
She wants to change her name to Jasmine.
She treats me to an extra-thick milkshake
then leaves lipstick on the straw.
She pulls pages out of my notebook
and fills them with terrifying poems,
poems she says are love poems, but that are clearly not.
She kisses my neighbor under the mistletoe
with an open mouth.
When she laughs, she slugs my bad arm.
She does my crossword in pen,
spelling out names of old boyfriends,
the names of her sister’s cats,
and “XOXO” when nothing else fits.
Pfefferle, W.T. My Coolest Shirt. Poems. The Word Works Press, 2015.