He didn’t like poetry.
“It’s just cat, hat, this and that,”
rhymes — he said.
The crux of the issue though:
he didn’t understand much
about self expression.
His walk seemed laborious,
but he could safely make it
from first to second base.
The color of his eyes
akin to oozy tar
in August.
I used to scan
the wanted section
(back when
people read newspapers).
I figured he might
take out a personal ad.
He wanted a girl who:
didn’t curse,
would watch NFL games,
and who loved to eat
(but never gained weight).
I didn’t tick any of the boxes.
He tore me down a peg
the first time he heard me say,
NFL players are overpaid douches,
and I told him as much.
I gained a “freshman 50”,
just to spite him.
They had 99-cent bottomless fries
at Red Robin,
and I was on a college-girl’s budget.
That situation could never have worked.
Poetry makes more and more sense
all the time.