To the Boys Who Were Kind

Why must I always choose
the useless assholes? Is a
song, I suppose, that has been
sung by women for thousands
of years.

John was my first choice who,
two months in, told me he
believed—really believed women
were meant only for babies while
Angel, who I denied, hustled daily
out of his way to walk me to class,
often bringing fragrant little presents
and once, with his poor eyes, even
searched for hours through dusty crates
at Mad Platters to find a rare record from
the band I adored.

Then there was Billy who risked
mortal mocking to show up at our
blue collar job in a suit and hat
to bring me a dozen hybrid roses
and ask me out to a restaurant he
couldn’t afford. But I was already
committed to some charming dick,
so I declined and, I think, might
have damaged his pliable heart.

And all the rest, but Bill and Angel
especially—one day I will meet you
again in heaven. I will be perfumed
and wearing my best dress. I will
bear you some rare gift but mostly
                                               an apology.


-M.