He likes your avocado shampoo
He likes it easy.

He parades without a permit, drops
by like a puncture wound or a parachute

He wants to watch you climb the stairs naked
from behind.

You wonder what malfunction his
pubescent memories constitute,

He will want to know how all this cornflour
in his mailbox got loose.

You contemplate jumping
from high enough to break some toes.

He just wants you to put some clothes on,
You’re not driving anyone home

This is downward momentum; he’s getting scared
of how hard you’re laughing

He should be afraid of the woman rebel
he calls schadenfreude “that Freud-y thing,”

And you are ready to drop some malfunctions.