Darla.

You look

How I feel like I look

On a bad day.

Darla

Darla,

I first saw you at the Flywheel

You were the only thing that could distract me from Thurston Moore.

Why are you friends with that really pretty girl?

Or more aptly,

Why is she friends with you?

I imagine you’ve made out with every boy in town.

The cute ones.

The ones in college.

But they were drunk

And disavow it later.

Darla, how dare you walk out of the production

of Richard III, which I staged

Last Saturday

In my basement?

Claiming “claustrophobia” because there were too many fans

Adoring me

And thinking how cool I was

My out-of-town guests

The programs which I folded by hand, with Disney’s Quasi Modo on the cover.

The popcorn with sugar and salt and cayenne.

Many people wept at the end, you know.

I almost did, myself.

Why is that pretty girl friends with you?

Darla

We could talk about your MySpace page.

Darla.