I could write hundreds of poems for people
who, in the grand scheme of my life, don’t exist.
But when I think of the gal who stepped on my
heart and left a stiletto hole time won’t fill
I turn into Ally Sheedy in that film
by John Hughes about Saturday detention,
specifically the part where the principal
puts her on the spot about who stole the screw.
It’s like, “Uh … I don’t know what to say! Stop tape!”
and then, BAM! I slam my head on a table.
It’s been that way since I was 14 and as
demented and sad as the Physics Club kid
with the fake love-slave from Niagara Falls’
face when the sporto jock laments what he did
to end up in their situation. Back then…
when I first saw her, it was like seeing God
sitting three feet away from me and thinking,
“There is no way I can talk to you. You’re too
pretty. Too classy. Too smart. Too elegant.
Meanwhile, there’s an ink pen on my lip and
I’m mumbling about being a walrus.”
I was a neo-maxie-zoom-dweebie, but
her? If she wasn’t prom queen, she shoulda been.
Long ago someone asked me if I liked her.
I lied and said no for a noble reason.
As a general rule, God is not pursued
romantically by boys, especially
when that boy sees he’s becoming John Bender…