“Dear Hightop,” 

It saddens one to inform the boss 

she’s not serious, never is. She makes 
comparisons during sex and makes 
love whilst checking in — whilst I live 
off the equity of a third faculty 
where the future holds — promised 
money, cash that takes my aches over the edge.  
 
Supposing there’s a container for every passion. 
Ounce by carbon resin ounce, a take-off  
economy floatable within, once  
regarded in wholeness, its contours  
beeped forward with the news, smart enough  
though meaner beyond its whereabouts..  
 
I guess it’s pointing to us.