Before typing your name in the search bar,
I imagined you Bukowski.
Dark struggle writing in a stupor.
Facebook reveals a gray-haired suburbanite
blowing bubbles with your daughter.
I am a lobster shell cracked open and empty.
The memory of your handprints on my neck.
Hands that I once loved.
You are smiling on the Golden Gate bridge
with your arms around your son.
And I am livid.
I could forgive the shadowed version of you.
But this personal essay real-life yahoo version,
with a wife who looks like me?
You asked me to give up a life,
so you could have yours.
This woman’s work has come undone.
A blue constellation of beings
swirled between us before seeding in fertile ground.
No chance of settling down.
I am your biggest failure.
You are my biggest regret.
Did you know your income is listed
on the first page of search results?
I have invaded your privacy
without your knowledge or approval.
Now, I am a witness to your failings.
Now, I am a fly upon your wall.
If you search my name,
you will find a professional profile, yawn.
You will see pictures, perhaps this poem.
Where you would discover me unplanted.
Unsettling, in words, because I never settled down.
Can you forget this unforgiven version of me? Probably.
Free to never Google
What you do not want to find.
Let It Bespoken 
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