(title barrowed somwhat from Marlon Riggs- R.I.P)

I. Pre
Yesterday, someone tamed my waves with flat iron
exhorted $25 from poor writer seeking a better story.
No look gives my non-decidedly not skinny, white, fashion model body,
decidedly skinny, white, fashion model hair.
Damn, I look good.

Today the razor extracts
facial hair amped up by steroids
I must take to breathe.

I insist on wearing
my burgundy, cruelty-free, combat boots
to speed dating.
Defiantly decide
that boys who don’t
like girls in boots
aren’t for me.

II. Event

I arrive at the Clarion Hotel
at five of five, over an hour early
gotta love mass transit.

I watch the televised Olympics
for a few moments, urinate…
I register, chat with founder,
notice lots of men in suits in line.
Hardly my kind of Mr. Perfect
(I prefer hippies if I’m going to go XY).

I say hello,
notice some raised eyebrows,
do the required mingling.

I first 6 minute date is okay.
We chat applicably,
I designate him a yes.

Several six minute dates later,
I meet a man who I decide
would only get in my pants
in order to save the species.

I meet a pianist/heart surgeon
who offers to play me jazz at our next meeting.
I wonder how such a person can still be single.
He’s average looking, but not horribly so.
Maybe my assistant is right about his purposed tiny penis.

I finally meet a duo of jerks;
one who says he wished he had a God’s power
so I “could walk and be healthy”.
I tell him I’m fine the way God made me;
he looks abashed.

Jerk number two was 22.
He seems interested what I’m saying.
We talk poetry. He quotes Yeats.
This could be interesting.

He tells me where he went to high school.
I tell him that I spoke there.
He asks what I talked about.
I tell him, assuming no one
who quotes Yeats could be biphobic;
I’m wrong.

III. Post

Upon return to familiar apartment,
I Face book comrades who feared
I would encounter a devotee.
Email. Write. Record. Sleep.

Come morning
I’m not surprised,
although a bit miffed, to discover
that none of the brief met men
want to meet me again.