You look at me as if I could never be
your lover. I feel your gaze, your annoyance
if only he were clean shaven,
you check with yourself,
yes, and if only he had more original shoes.
If only he were reading Pablo Neruda
and had longer hair.
If only he weren’t riding this bus
going downtown instead of uptown.
If only I had a box
of all my favorite things
and could serenade you
with my ukulele
and read you Alden Nowlan.
Yes, then you would be my lover.
If, of course, you wore
far less make-up
and more comfortable shoes.
