“Successful” guys can be so—
I’d rather date a bus
boy. He probably wouldn’t be
such a—
Honestly, does anyone really need
such a big set of
pecks?
I know you think you’re hot, so not
that my opinion matters, but really I just want to
splatter mud
on your Abercrombie graphic T, pierce your lip,
give you a really ugly
tattoo—at least it would lend some
character.
No, I really don’t care about your stock
profile, so now, would you mind
wiping
some of the gel out of your hair?
Sometimes, it scares me
that I’d rather date the guy
smoking pot behind the dumpster outside the office,
than date the guy who actually works
in the office—
I’ve looked at the hospital janitor
pushing a cart of dirty towels down the hallway and said,
“hmmm…” entirely overlooking
the doctor.
As much as I’d love to stare at your expensive tie
across the table,
I’m just so distracted by the cook.
He's back there sweating in the hot kitchen,
breading chicken,
you know he knows
how to use his hands, how to grip a breast…
perhaps it would be best
if you didn’t order us a second bottle
of the place’s best red,
let’s just admit this date is dead, so
excuse me while I swoon
to the taxi cab driver’s Spanish music on my way home.
He barely speaks English, and I barely Spanish, but
¿Que te pasa, papi?
The man who pays for a tan
from a bed doesn’t much impress me—I’d rather
a farmer tan rendezvous
‘cause it’s true
I do
think your tractor’s
sexy.
I’d rather a dude
be able to build me a house
than buy me one, would prefer to date
the guy who fixes the car
over the one who drives it, especially if, God forbid, it’s a sports
car.
The rockstar in centerstage
will probably bore me to tears, unless of course he introduces me
to the drummer he just fired
for never being on time.
If you’re going to sing your own praises, I can promise you
I won’t be in the audience—instead you’ll find me
in the porta-john, making out
with the long-haired guy who writes
bad poetry.
