the only men I’ve ever known are gamblers, alcoholics, deadbeats. I see women with studious, sensitive men on the “A” train,
I see them on street corners,
walking through Central Park together,
riding their bikes as the sun sets:
couples in love. I know
love is only temporary, but being in love means there’s trust.
the only men I’ve ever known are gamblers, alcoholics, deadbeats. I see women with good men in crisp, white Oxford shirts,
and hairless faces.
“I’m a sucker for the bad boys,” I tell my mother.
“a good man deserves a good woman,” she says under her breath.
image courtesy of Banksy
I can be good. even if it kills me, I can be good, better than a social worker, better than a pre-school teacher, better than Mother Teresa; I can be a good woman, who deserves a good man,
he will worship me, snip off a lock of my hair and keep it in his shirt pocket,
he will enjoy my delusions,
laugh at my jokes,
dance with my grandmother,
caress my cat’s neck,
sleep on his side of the bed.
he’s out there,
somewhere
among the gamblers, alcoholics, deadbeats.
In the middle of the bright morning, a tower crane crashed through your bedroom walls. This afternoon, as you walked across a busy inter-section, thousands of screws and bolts exploded into the crowd. Afterwards, while you were alone on top of the clouds, the rumblings of an avalanche surprised you.
