The antichrist of compromise
︎︎︎ Lucia Auerbach
︎ Oct 18, 2025
I pay off my credit card in increments of fifty.
I am no poet,
but a scheduler.
Maybe a romantic
who likes to keep track of the time,
to stare at the stars,
but only in cities,
to count his moles,
but only when he’s sleeping,
to pick up his calls,
but only when I’m working.
He’s a barfly at best.
Never smells of leather,
hardly ever smokes tobacco,
drinks gin to conquer,
and will buy the small blonde well tequila.
Despite his commitment to Hendricks,
he believes in oral hygiene.
He’ll even offer you a pick,
“helped me quit.”
He’ll only speak to you at happy hour.
Maybe offer you a job at the city councilman’s office.
Have you ever seen him work?
Even though he always appears to have just come undone?
A button-down shirt with a wrinkled collar.
Narrow, rectangular, metal glasses,
only to read the menu.
The blonde learned his name.
And I?
Learned to grin.
I am no poet,
but a scheduler.
Maybe a romantic
who likes to keep track of the time,
to stare at the stars,
but only in cities,
to count his moles,
but only when he’s sleeping,
to pick up his calls,
but only when I’m working.
He’s a barfly at best.
Never smells of leather,
hardly ever smokes tobacco,
drinks gin to conquer,
and will buy the small blonde well tequila.
Despite his commitment to Hendricks,
he believes in oral hygiene.
He’ll even offer you a pick,
“helped me quit.”
He’ll only speak to you at happy hour.
Maybe offer you a job at the city councilman’s office.
Have you ever seen him work?
Even though he always appears to have just come undone?
A button-down shirt with a wrinkled collar.
Narrow, rectangular, metal glasses,
only to read the menu.
The blonde learned his name.
And I?
Learned to grin.