True, she smells faintly of patchouli, but I have noticed the occasional whiff of spaghetti sauce on that turquoise serape she’s worn since college. Even the least likely men have fallen for those loose, dark curls—and who doesn’t love the confidence of a makeup-free grin? I know you usually go for someone like Holding-Back Mia, with her soccer-player thighs and devil-may-care ponytail, but you know how well that typically ends, with you writing emotional checks she refuses to cash. And that’s when you’re not falling for an Overly Clingy Pam or a Think-Twice Serena. You know you’d do anything just to run your fingers down the silky arm of an Out-of-Your-League Miranda, with her lilac organza and diamond earrings. Wake up. You’re better off with a There-for-You Debra or even a Meet-You-Halfway Amy. But that Sue. Definitely trouble.
This poem appeared in the now-retired webzine Pure Francis in June 2011. Much thanks to Francis, dapper connoisseur of crème soda and caviar. It was a great run.
