He’d been shopped around to every prom
and bat-mitzvah. No fear of the date
who’d gab only about himself, ’67 Mustangs,
or screwing. No way he’d dump you
by the punchbowl for skinny Mary-Kay,
no shouting matches over The Beatles’
break-up. Didn’t matter if you were fat,
cratered with acne, varicose-veined. Prompt
to your door, he’d twitch in a four-inch-wide
tie knotted so tight, you’d think he’d turn the color
of your taffeta. He’d thrust out the sufficient pink
corsage grabbed as Pete’s Supermarket closed, lower
his eyes, scuff one white patent leather shoe over
the other. After mom snapped practice-wedding
photos, you’d wish you could just pat him on the head
and send him home to watch Saturday nature TV. Not
an option. Your mission was to withstand the gloom
of slowdance knowing you’d never really be interested
in boys, and if that meant your entire life would be like
a salvaged date with a phobic distant cousin. Could there
ever be pleasure in pleasure, or just servitude? His mouth
was a thin scribbled line like the scar etched by wire sutures,
and close enough for me to hear whatever was trapped
there being strangled by its first syllable.
