My poem’s at the bottom of the page. It’s the one to the right of the Mexican Invisible and to the left of the Queer Trigger. Sits directly above the Depressed Democrat who keeps hollering, I voted for Hillary, did you? My poem is self-conscious, verbose and eternally on Weight Watchers. It’s embarrassed of its comma use and knows the dashes can be very overbearing. My poem longs to date M. Editor, the one who isn’t mainstream either, who is fantastically flawed, with skin layered over beauty words. My poem is not about moons, but would love to learn of such mystery.
My poem has a potty mouth, bends toward hell and wanted to be Molly Ringwald. Or Ally Sheedy. It wanted to date Judd Nelson, then marry Andrew McCarthy. But it’s had to accept middle-aged anonymity, cheaper cheese and pink wine. It’s tenderly aware; it’s no Demi Moore.
My poem has learned to be okay with what it’s given: grey hair and pear hips (more becoming than we seem). And it has had to learn the hard way: people live lonely, and hearts are starving everywhere.